c 


sA-^iri ■* -j    &■  *~t  '  t 


POETICAL  WORKS- 


THOMAS   MOORE: 


llfCLUDIWO 


*  LALi  A     ROOK.H,"     "  ODES     OF     ANACREON,"     "  1IUBH 

MELODIES,"     "  NATIONAL    AIRS,"     AND 

"  MISCELLANEOUS    POEHS." 


A    NEW    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY- 
1858. 


d^ 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  public  have  long  felt  the  want  of  a  work  of  the  char- 
acter now  offered  them,  the  editions  of  this  author's  poems 
heretofore  published  being  too  expensive  to  come  within  the 
reach  of  the  many ;  and  it  is  to  supply  a  vacuQm  of  this  kind 
that  the  present  volume  is  offered.  The  author's  greatest 
production,  and  the  one  from  which  he  has  derived  his  well- 
deserved  fame,  —  Lalla  Rookh,  —  has  been  preserved  entire, 
with  the  principal  portion  of  the  "  Odes  of  Anacreon," 
"  Irish  Melodies,"  and  "  National  Airs,"  to  which  has  been 
added  a  careful  selection  from  the  remainder  of  his  works, 
under  the  title  of  "  Miscellaneous  Poems." 


CONTENTS. 


ft* 

La  tla  Eookh 13 

The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan 19 

Paradise  and  the  Peri, 96 

The  Fire- Worshippers, 121 

Th^ight  of  the  Haram, 2j0 

Odes  of  Anackeon. 

Odei., 233 

Odeii., 234 

Odeiii., 235 

Ode  iv., 235 

Odev. , 236 

Odevi., 237 

Odevii., 235 

Ode  viii 239 

Odeix.,. 248 

Odex., 241 

Odexi., 241 

Odexii., 242 

Odexiii., 243 

Ode  xiv., 244 

Ode  xv., 246 

OdexTi. 247 

Odexvii., 249. 

Ode  xviii. 2<51 

Odexix., 25* 

Ode  xx., 253 


6  CO.NTE.VTS. 

Ode  xxi 358 

Ode  xxii., -/>* 

Odexxiii., 355 

Odexxiv., 356 

Ode  xxv., 357 

Ode  xxvi., 358 

Ode  xxvii., 359 

Ode  xxviii. , -    ' 

Odexxix., 260 

Ode  xxx., 361 

Odexxxi., -  - 

Ode  xxxii., 363 

Ode  xxxiii., 254 

Ode  xxxiv., - 

Ode  xxxv., 367 

Ode  xxxvi., 268 

Odexxxvii., ••269 

Ode  xxxviii., 2,0 

Odexxxix ....271 

Odexl., 372 

Odexli., 272 

Odexlii., 273 

Odexliii., 274 

Ode  xliv., 27-5 

Odexlv., 276 

Ode  xlvi., 277 

Odexlvii., 278 

Odexlviii., 279 

Odexlix., 2S0 

Odel. 280 

Ibish  Melodies. 

— •  Go  where  Glory  waits  thee, 2So 

Erin  !  the  Tear  and  the  Smile  in  thine  Eyes, 286 

~ ' *The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls 287 

•  War  Song 288 

-^-Oh  !  breathe  not  his  Name, 289 

Rich  and  rare  vro-.e  the  Gems  she  wore, 289 


CO>TE>"TS.  / 

Page. 

As  a  Beam  o'er  tlie  Face  of  the  Waters  may  glow, 29G 

Take  back  the  Virgin  Page, 291. 

— -Let  Erin  remember  the  Days  of  Old, 292 

JS*rleen's  Bower, .* 293 

Love's  Young  Dream, 294 

\  Erin,  oh  Erin, 295 

I  'd  mourn  the  Hopes 296 

Oh  the  Shamrock 297 

Farewell !  — but  whenever  you  welcome  the  Hour, 299 

,.-  .  'J  is  the  last  Rose  of  Summer, 300 

Has  Sorrow  thy  young  Days  shaded, 301 

—  The  Minstrel  Boy, 302 

Oh  !  had  we  some  bright  little  Isle  of  our  oun, 303 

Fill  the  Bumper  fair, 304 

As  slow  our  Ship, 306 

I  saw  from  the  Beach, 307 

In  tire  Morning  of  Life, SOS 

Where  is  the  Slave, 309 

Wreath  the  Bowl, 310 

Before  the  Battle, 312 

After  the  Battle, 313 

One  Bumper  at  parting, 314 

While  gazing  on  the  Moon's  Light, Clo 

Come  o'er  the  Sea, 316 

Come,  rest  in  this  Bosom, . 317 

Whene'er  I  see  those  smiling  Eyes, 315 

On  Music, 319 

She  sung  of  Love, 320 

Alone  in  Crowds  to  wander  on, .321 

They  know  not  my  Heart, ■  322 

Echo, 322 

_      Tho'  the  last  Glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I  see, 323 

As  vanquish'd  Erin, 324 

Weep  on,  weep  on, 325 

— '  »Dear  Harp  of  my  Country, 326 

The  Mountain  Sprite, ■ 326 

Lay  his  Sword  by  his  Side, 323 

Oh,  could  we  do  with  this  World  of  ours, 329 

\  Forget  not  the  Field, 33& 


8  CONTESTS. 

If  thou  'It  be  mine, 331 

Sail  on,  sail  on, 332 

The  meeting  of  the  Waters, 332 

She  is  far  from  the  Land, 333 

No,  not  more  welcome, 334 

Drink  to  her, 33.5 

The  Fortune-Teller, ......„..« 330 

National  Airs. 

A  Temple  to  Friendship, 341 

All  that's  Bright  must  fade, 342 

Reason,  Folly,  and  Beauty, 343 

Those  Evening  Bells, 344 

There  comes  a  Time, 345 

Love  and  Hope, 346 

The  Crystal-Hunters,..; 3-17 

Fare  thee  well,  thou  lovely  One, 349 

Gay  ly  sounds  the  Castanet, 3-50 

-Oft,  in  the  stilly  Night, 351 

Peace  be  around  thee, 352 

Row  gently  here, 353 

My  Harp  has  one  unchanging  Theme, 354 

Come,  chase  that  starting  Tear  away, 355 

Who  '11  buy  my  Love-Knots  ? 356 

Bright  be  thy  Dreams, 357 

Like  one  who,  doom'd, 358 

Though  't  is  all  but  a  Dream, 359 

Joys  of  Youth,  now  fleeting, 360 

Love  is  a  Hunter-Boy, 3G1 

Flow  on,  thou  shining  River, 362 

Go,  then —  'tis  vain...... 363 

Where  shall  we  bury  our  Shame  ? 364 

Take  hence  the  Bowl, 365 

Hark  !  the  Vesper  Hymn  is  stealing, 366 

When  through  the  Piazetta, 367 

When  abroad  in  the  World, 368 

When  Love  is  kind, 369 

Keep  those  Eyes  still  purely  mine, 370 


CONTENTS. 


9 


Pige. 

Hear  me  but  Once, 370 

Thou  loy'st  no  More, .371 

Here  sleeps  the  Bard 372 

Do  not  say  that  Life  is  waning, .....372 

If  in  loving,  singing, 373 

Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Lines  written  on  leaving  Philadelphia, 377 

0&A  Canadian  Boat  Song, 378 

To  the  Fire-Fly, 379 

The  Steersman's  Song, 380 

"Written  on  passing  Deadman's  Island, 3S1 

The  Torch  of  Liberty, 382 

This  World  is  all  a  fleeting  Show, 384 

Oh,  teach  me  to  love  thee, 385 

Weep  not  for  those, 3S6 

%  A  Ballad.     The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 3S7 

Song  of  the  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Woods, 3S9 

Lines  written  at  the  Cohos,  or  Falls   of  the   Mohawk 

River, 391 

The  Turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  Shrine, 392 

Youth  and  Age 393 

The  dying  Warrior, 394 

Merrily  every  Bosom  boundeth, 396 

The  Magic  Mirror, 397 

The  Fancy  Fair, 393 

Her  last  Words  at  parting, 400 

Ballad  Stanzas, 401 

Sale  of  Cupid, 402 

Come,  ye  Disconsolate, 403 

The  meeting  of  the  Ships, 403 

The  Exile, 404 

As  down  in  the  sunless  Retreats, 405 

Rose  of  the  Desert, 405 

Sound  the  1  >ud  Timbrel, 406 

Long  Years  have  pass'd 407 

Tell  her,  oh,  tell  her, 403 

Oh,  call  it  by  some  better  Name, .408 


10  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Fancy 409 

To  the  Flying  Fish, 410 

The  Day-Dream, 411 

Boat  Glee, 413 

Song, 414 

Come,  play  me  that  simple  Air  again, - 415 

Song, 416 

Sovereign  Woman, 417 

At  Night, 419 

Rondeau 41^* 


LALLA    ROOKH 


IALLA    ROOKH. 


In  the  eleventh  vear  of  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe, 
Abdalla,  King  of  tlie  Lesser  Bucharia,  a  lineal  descend- 
ant from  the  Great  Zingis,  having  abdicated  the  throne 
in  favor  of  his  son,  set  out  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Shrine 
of  the  Prophet ;  and,  passing  into  India  through  the 
delightful  valley  of  Cashmere,  rested  for  a  short  time 
&t  Delhi  on  his  way.  He  was  entertained  by  Aurungze- 
be  in  a  style  of  magnificent  hospitality,  worthy  alike  of 
the  visiter  and  the  host,  and  was  afterwards  escorted 
with  the  same  splendor  to  Surat,  where  he  embarked 
for  Arabia.  During  the  stay  of  the  Royal  Pilgrim  at 
Delhi,  a  marrtege  was  agreed  upon  between  the  Prince, 
his  son,  and  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Emperor, 
Lalla  Rookh ;  —  a  Princess  described  by  the  poets  of 
her  time  as  more  beautiful  than  Leila,  Shirine,  Dewilde, 
or  any  of  those  heroines  whose  names  and  loves  em- 
bellish the  songs  of  Persia  and  Hindostan.  It  was 
intended  that  the  nuptials  should  be  celebrated  at  Cash« 
mere  ;  where  the  young  King,  as  soon  as  the  cares  c£ 
empire  would  permit,  was  to  meet,  for  the  first  time,  his 
lovely  bride,  and  after  a  few  months'  repose  in  that 
enchanting  valley,  conduct  her  over  the  snowy  hilla 
into  Bucharia. 

The  day  of  Lalla  Rookh's  departure  from  Delhi  waa 
3 


14  LA1XA    ROOKH. 

rs  splendid  as  sunshine  and  pageantry  could  make  it 
The  bazaars  and  baths  were  all  covered  with  the  richest 
tapestry ;  hundreds  of  gilded  barges  upon  the  Jumna 
floated  with  their  banners  shining  in  the  water ;  while 
through  the  streets  groups  of  beautiful  children  went 
strewing  the  most  delicious  flowers  around,  as  in  that 
Persian  festival  called  the  Scattering  of  the  Roses  ;  till 
every  part  of  the  city  was  as  fragrant  as  if  a  caravan 
of  musk  from  Khoten  had  passed  through  it  The 
Princess,  having  taken  leave  of  her  kind  father,  who  at 
parting  hung  a  cornelian  of  Yeman  round  her  neck,  on 
which  was  inscribed  a  verse  from  the  Koran,  and  having 
sent  a  considerable  present  to  the  Fakirs,  who  kept  up 
the  Perpetual  Lamp  in  her  sister's  tomb,  meekly  ascend- 
ed the  palankeen  prepared  for  her ;  and,  while  Aurung- 
zebe  stood  to  take  a  last  look  from  his  balcony,  the 
procession  moved  slowly  on  the  road  to  Lahore. 

Seldom  had  the  Eastern  world  seen  a  cavalcade  so 
euperb.  From  the  gardens  in  the  suburbs  to  the  Impe- 
rial palace,  it  was  one  unbroken  line  of  splendor.  The 
gallant  appearance  of  the  Rajahs  and  Mogul  lords,  dis- 
tinguished by  those  insignia  of  the  Emperor's  favor, 
the  feathers  of  the  egret  of  Cashmere  in  their  turbans, 
and  the  small  silver-rimmed  kettle-drums  at  the  bowa 
of  their  saddles ;  —  the  costly  armor  of  their  cavaliers, 
who  vied,  on  this  occasion,  with  the  guards  of  the  great 
Keder  Khan,  in  the  brightness  of  their  silver  battle-axes 
and  the  massiness  of  their  maces  of  gold ;  —  the  glit- 
tering of  the  guilt  pineapples  on  the  tops  of  the  palan- 
keens ;  —  the  embroidered  trappings  of  the  elephants, 
bearing  on  their  backs  small  turrets,  in  the  shape  of 
little  antique  temples,  within  which  the  Ladies  of  Lalla 
Rookh  lay  as  it  were  enshrined ;  —  the  rose-colored 
feils  of  the  Princess's  own  sumptuous  litter,  at  the  front 


LALLA     ROOKH.  15 

of  which  a.  fair  young  female  slave  sat  fanning  her 
through  the  curtains,  with  feathers  of  the  Argus  pheas- 
ant's wing  ;  —  and  the  lovely  troop  of  Tartarian  and 
Cashmerian  maids  of  honor,  whom  the  young  King  had 
33nt  to  accompany  his  bride,  and  who  rode  on  each  side 
of  the  litter,  upon  small  Arabian  horses ;  —  all  waa 
brilliant,  tasteful,  and  magnificent,  and  pleased  even 
the  critical  and  fastidious  Fadladeen,  Great  Nazir,  or 
Chamberlain  of  the  Haram,  who  was  borne  in  his  palan- 
keen immediately  after  the  Princess,  and  considered 
himself  not  the  least  important  personage  of  the 
pageant 

Fadladeen  was  a  judge  of  every  thing, —  from  the 
pencilling  of  a  Circassian's  eyelids  to  the  deepest  ques- 
tions of  science  and  literature ;  from  the  mixture  of  a 
conserve  of  rose-leaves  to  the  composition  of  an  epic 
poem;  and  such  influence  had  his  opinion  upon  the 
various  tastes  of  the  day,  that  all  the  cooks  and  poets 
of  Delhi  stood  in  awe  of  him.  His  political  conduct 
and  opinions  were  founded  upon  that  line  of  Sadi,  — 
"  Should  the  Prince  at  noonday  say,  It  is  night,  declare 
that  you  behold  the  moon  and  stars."  —  And  his  zeal 
for  religion,  of  which  Aurungzebe  was  a  munificent 
protector,  was  about  as  disinterested  as  that  of  the  gold- 
smith who  fell  in  love  with  the  diamond  eyes  of  the 
idol  of  Jaghernaut. 

During  the  first  days  of  their  journey,  Lalla  Rookh, 
who  had  passed  all  her  life  within  the  shadow  of  the 
Royal  Gardens  of  Delhi,  found  enough  in  the  beauty 
of  the  scenery  through  which  they  passed  to  interest 
her  mind,  and  delight  her  imagination ;  and  when  at 
evening,  or  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  they  turned  o:F  from 
the  high  road  to  those  retired  and  romantic  places  which 
had  been  selected  for  her  encampments,  —  sometimes 


16  LALLA    ROOKH. 

on  tlie  banks  of  a  small  rivulet,  as  clear  as  the  waters 
of  the  Lake  of  Pearl ;  sometimes  under  the  sacred 
shade  of  a  Banyan  tree,  from  which  the  view  opened 
upon  a  glade  covered  with  antelopes  ;  and  often  in  those 
hidden,  embowered  spots,  described  by  one  from  tlio 
Isles  of  the  West,  as  "  places  of  melancholy,  delight, 
and  safety,  where  all  the  company  around  was  wild 
peacocks  and  turtle-doves;"  —  she  felt  a  charm  in  these 
scenes,  so  lovely  and  so  new  to  her,  which,  for  a  time, 
made  her  indifferent  to  every  other  amusement.  But 
Lalla  Rookh  was  young,  and  the  young  love  variety 
nor  could  the  conversation  of  her  Ladies  and  the  Great 
Chamberlain,  Fadladeen,  (the  only  person,  of  course, 
admitted  to  her  pavillion,)  sufficiently  enliven  those 
many  vacant  hours,  which  were  devoted  neither  to  the 
pillow  nor  the  palankeen.  There  was  a  little  Persian 
slave  who  sung  sweetly  to  the  Vina,  and  who,  now  and 
then,  lulled  the  Princess  to  sleep  vr.th  the  ancient  dit- 
ties of  her  country,  about  the  loves  of  Wamak  and 
Ezra,  the  fair-haired  Zal  and  his  mistress  Rodahver ; 
not  forgetting  the  combat  of  Rustam  with  the  terrible 
White  Demon.  At  other  times  she  was  amused  by 
those  graceful  dancing  girls  of  Delhi,  who  had  been 
permitted  by  the  Bramins  of  the  Great  Pagoda  to  attend 
her,  much  to  the  horror  of  the  good  Mussulman  Fad- 
ladeen, who  could  see  nothing  graceful  or  agreeable  in 
idolaters,  and  to  whom  the  very  tinkling  of  their  golden 
anklets  was  an  abomination. 

But  these  and  many  other  diversions  were  repeated 
till  they  lost  all  their  charm,  and  the  nights  and  noon- 
days were  beginning  to  move  heavily,  when,  at  length, 
it  was  recollected  that,  among  the  attendants  sent  by  the 
bridegroom,  was  a  young  poet  of  Cashmere,  much  cel- 
ebrated throughout  the  Valley  for  his  manner  of  reci* 


LA.LLA    ROOKH.  17 

bng  the  Stories  of  the  East,  on  whom  1  is  Royal  Master 
had  conferred  the  privilege  of  being  admitted  to  the 
pavillion  of  the  Princess,  that  he  might  help  to  beguile 
the  tediousness  of  the  journey  by  some  of  his  most 
agreeable  recitals.  At  the  mention  of  a  poet,  Fad- 
ladeen  elevated  his  critical  eyebrows,  and,  having  re- 
freshed his  faculties  with  a  dose  of  that  delicious  opium 
which  is  distilled  from  the  black  poppy  of  the  Thebais, 
gave  orders  for  the  minstrel  to  be  forthwith  introduced 
into  their  presence. 

The  Princess,  who  had  once  in  her  life  seen  a  poet 
from  behind  the  screens  of  gauze  in  her  Father's  hall, 
and  had  conceived  from  that  specimen  no  very  favorable 
ideas  of  the  Caste,  expected  but  little  in  this  new  ex- 
hibition to  interest  fler ;  —  she  felt  inclined,  however,  to 
alter  her  opinion  on  the  very  first  appearance  of  Fera- 
morz.     He  was  a  ibout  Lalla  Rookh's  own  age, 

and  graceful  as  that  idol  of  women,  Crishna,  —  such  as 
he  appears  to  their  young  imaginations,  heroic,  beau- 
tiful, breathing  music  from  his  very  eyes,  and  exalting 
iligion  of  his  worshippers  into  love.  His  dress 
was  simple,  yet  not  without  some  marks  of  costliness  ; 
and  the  Ladies  of  the  Princess  were  not  long  in  dis- 
covering  that  the  cloth,  which  encircled  his  high  Tar- 
tarian can,  n  as  of  the  :.  te  kind  that  the  shawl 
goats  of  Tibet  supply.  Here  and  there,  too,  over  his 
vest,  which  was  confined  by  a  flowered  girdle  of  Kashan, 
hung  strings  of  fine  pearl,  disposed  with  an  air  of 
studied  negligence  ; —  nor  did  the  exquisite  embroidery 
of  his  sandals  escape  the  observation  of  these  fair  crit- 
ics who,  however  they  might  give  way  to  Fadladeen 
upon  the  unimportant  topics  of  religion  and  government, 
had  the  spirit  of  martyrs  in  every  thing  relating  to  such 
momentous  matters  as  'ewels  and  embroidery. 


J8  LALLA    ROOKE. 

For  the  purpose  of  relieving  the  pauses  of  recitatioa 
by  music,  the  young  Cashmerian  held  in  his  hand  a 
kitar ;  such  as,  in  old  times,  the  Arab  maids  of  the 
West  used  to  listen  to  by  moonlight  in  the  gardens  of 
the  Alhambra  —  and,  having  premised,  with  much 
humility,  that  the  story  he  was  about  to  relate  was 
founded  on  the  adventures  of  that  Veiled  Prophet  of 
Khorassan,  who,  in  the  year  of  the  Hegira  1C3,  created 
Buch  alarm  throughout  the  Eastern  Empire,  made  aa 
abeisiace  to  the  Princess,  and  tins  began:  — 


is 


THE  VEILED  PROPHET   OF  KHORASSAN. 

In  that  delightful  Province  of  the  Sun, 
The  first  of  Persian  lands  he  shines  upon, 
Where  all  the  loveliest  children  of  his  beam, 
Flow'rets  and  fruits  blush  over  ev'ry  stream, 
And,  fairest  of  all  streams,  the  Murga  roves 
Among  Merou's  bright  palaces  and  groves ;  — 
There  on  that  throne,  to  which  the  blind  belief 
Of  millions  raised  him,  sat  the  Prophet-Chief, 
The  Great  Mokanna.     O'er  his  features  hung 
The  Veil,  the  Silver  Veil,  which  he  had  flung 
In  mercy  there,  to  hide  from  mortal  sight 
His  dazzling  brow,  till  man  could  bear  its  light. 
For,  far  less  luminous,  his  votaries  said, 
Were  ev'n  the  gleams,  miraculously  shed 
O'er  Moussa's  cheek,  when  down  the  Mount  he  trodj 
All  glowing  from  the  presence  of  his  God ! 


On  either  side,  with  ready  hearts  and  hands, 
His  chosen  guard  of  bold  Believers  stands  ; 
Young  fire-eyed  disputants,  who  deem  their  swords, 
On  points  of  faith,  more  eloquent  than  words ; 
And  such  their  zeal,  there 's  not  a  youth  with  brand 
Uplifted  there,  but,  at  the  Chief's  command, 
Would  make  his  own  devoted  heart  its  sheath, 
And  bless  the  lips  that  doom'd  so  dear  a  death ! 
In  hatred  to  the  Caliph's  hue  of  night, 
Their  vesture,  helms  and  all,  is  snowy  white ; 


20  IALLA     ROOKH. 

Their  weapons  various  —  some  equipp'd,  for  speed, 
With  javelins  of  the  light  Kathaian  reed ; 
Or  bows  of  buffalo  horn  and  shining  quivers 
Fiil'd  with  the  stems  that  bloom  on  Iran's  riveis  ; 
Wliile  some,  for  war's  more  terrible  attacks, 
Wieid  tlie  huge  mace  and  pond'rous  battle-axe  ; 
And  as  tliey  wave  aloft  in  morning's  beam 
The  milk-white  plumage  of  their  helms,  they  seem 
Like  a  chenar-tree  grove  when  winter  throws 
O'er  all  its  tufteu'  heads  its  feathering  snows. 


Between  the  porphyry  pillars,  that  uphold 
The  rich  moresque-work  of  the  roof  of  gold, 
Aloft  the  Haram's  curtain'd  galleries  rise, 
Where  through  the  silken  network,  glancing  eyes, 
From  time  to  time,  like  sudden  gleams  that  glow 
Through  autumn  clouds,  shine  o'er  the  pomp  below.  — 
What  impious  tongue,  ye  blushing  saints,  would  dare 
To  hint  that  aught  but  Heav'n  had  placed  you  there  ? 
Or  that  the  loves  of  this  light  world  could  bind, 
In  their  gross  chain,  your  Prophet's  soaring  mind  ? 
No  —  wrongful  thought !  —  commission'd  from  above 
To  people  Eden's  bowers  with  shapes  of  love, 
(Creatures  so  bright,  that  the  same  lips  and  eyes 
They  wear  on  earth  will  serve  in  Paradise,) 
There  to  recline  among  Heav'n's  native  maids, 
And  crown  tli'  Elect  with  bliss  that  never  fades- — 
Well  hath  the  Prophet  Chief  his  bidding  done ; 
And  ev'ry  beauteous  race  beneath  the  sun, 
From  those  who  kneel  at  Brahma's  burning  founts, 
To  the  fresh  nymphs  bounding  o'er  Yemen's  mounts. 
From  Persia's  eyes  of  full  and  fawn-like  ray, 
To  the  small  hall-shut  glances  of  Kathay ; 


_ 


LALLA    AOOKH.  2} 

And  Georgia's  bloom,  and  Azab's  darker  smiles, 
And  the  gold  ringlets  of  the  Western  Isles  ; 
All,  all  are  there  ;  —  each  Land  its  flower  hath  gh  02^ 
To  form  that  fair  young  Nursery  for  Heav'n  ! 


But  why  this  pageant  now  ?  —  this  arm'd  array  ? 
What  triumph  crowds  the  rich  Divan  to-day 
With  turban'd  heads,  of  ev'ry  hue  and  race, 
Bowing  before  that  veil'd  and  awful  face, 
Like  tulip-beds,  of  difTrent  shape  and  dyes, 
Bending  beneath  th'  invisible  West-wind's  sighs  ! 
What  new-made  mystery  now,  for  Fai'Ji  to  sign, 
And  blood  to  seal,  as  genuine  and  divine, 
What  dazzling  mimicry  of  God's  own  power 
Hath  the  bold  Prophet  plann'd  to  grace  this  hour  ? 


Not  such  the  pageant  now,  though  not  less  proud ; 
Ton  warrior  youth,  advancing  from  the  crowd, 
With  silver  bow,  with  belt  of  broider'd  crape, 
And  fur-bound  bonnet  of  Bucharian  shape, 
So  fiercely  beautiful  in  form  and  eye, 
Like  wars  wild  planet  in  a  summer  sky  ; 
That  youth  to-day,  —  a  proselyte,  worth  hordes 
Of  cooler  spirits  and  less  practised  swords,  — 
Is  come  to  join,  all  bravery  and  belief, 
The  creed  and  standard  of  the  heav'n-sent  Cbief 


Though  few  his  years,  the  West  already  knows 
Young  Azim's  fame  ;  —  beyond  th'  Olympian  snow^ 
Ere  manhood  darken'd  o'er  his  downy  cheek, 
O'erwhelm  d  in  fight,  and  captive  to  the  Greek, 


22  LALLA    ROOKH. 

He  lingerM  there,  till  peace  dissolved  his  chains ;  — 

Oh,  who  could,  e'en  in  bondage,  tread  the  plains 

Of  glorious  Greece,  nor  feel  his  spirit  rise 

Kindling  within  him  ?  who,  with  heart  and  eyes, 

Could  walk  where  liberty  had  been,  nor  see 

The  shining  footprints  of  her  Deity, 

Nor  feel  those  godlike  breathings  in  the  air, 

Which  mutely  told  her  spirit  had  been  there  ? 

Not  he,  that  youthful  warrior,  —  no,  too  well 

For  his  soul's  quiet  woxk'd  th'  awak'ning  spell ; 

And  now,  returning  to  his  own  dear  land, 

Full  of  those  dreams  of  good  that,  vainly  grand, 

Haunt  the  young  heart,  —  proud  views  of  human  kind 

Of  men  to  Gods  exalted  and  refined,  — 

False  views,  like  that  horizon's  fair  deceit, 

Where  earth  and  heav'n  but  seem,  alas,  to  meet !  — 

Soon  as  he  heard  an  Arm  Divine  was  raised 

To  right  the  nations,  and  beheld,  emblazed 

On  the  white  flag,  Mokanna's  host  unfurl'd, 

Those  words  of  sunshine,  "Freedom  to  the  World," 

At  once  his  faith,  his  sword,  his  soul  obey'd 

Th'  inspiring  summons  ;  every  chosen  blade 

That  fought  beneath  that  banner's  sacred  text 

Seem'd  doubly  edged,  for  this  world  and  the  next ; 

And  ne'er  did  Faith  with  her  smooth  bandage  bind 

Eyes  more  devoutly  wflling  to  be  blind, 

In  virtue's  cause  ;  —  never  was  soul  inspired 

W  ith  livelier  trust  in  what  it  most  desired, 

TLan  his,  th'  enthusiast  there,  who  kneeling,  pale 

With  pious  awe,  before  that  Silver  Veil, 

Believes  the  form,  to  which  he  bends  his  knee, 

Pome  pure,  redeeming  angel,  sent  to  free 

This  fetter'd  world  from  every  bond  and  stain. 

And  bring  its  primal  glories  back  again ! 


LALLA    ROOKH.  23 

Low  as  young  Azim  knelt,  tliat  motley  crowd 
Of  all  earth's  nations  sunk  the  knee  and  bow'd, 
With  shouts  of  "  Alia !  "  echoing  long  and  loud ; 
While  high  in  air,  above  the  Prophet's  head, 
Hundreds  of  banners,  to  the  sunbeam  spread, 
Waved,  like  the  wings  of  the  white  birds  that  fan 
The  flying  throne  of  star-taught  Soliman. 
Then  thus  he  spoke :  —  "  Stranger,  though  new  the  frama 
Thy  soul  inhabits  now,  I  've  track'd  its  flame 
For  many  an  age,  in  ev'ry  chance  and  change 
Of  that  existence,  through  whose  varied  range,  — 
As  through  a  torch-race,  where,  from  hand  to  hand 
The  flying  youths  transmit  their  shining  brand, 
From  frame  to  frame  the  unextinguish'd  soul 
Rapidly  passes,  till  it  reach  the  goal ! 


"  Nor  think  '  tis  only  the  gross  Spirits,  warm'd 
With  duskier  fire  and  for  earth's  medium  form'd, 
That  run  this  course :  —  Beings,  the  most  divine, 
Thus  deign  through  dark  mortality  to  shine. 
Such  was  the  Essence  that  in  Adam  dwelt, 
To  which  all  Heav'n.  except  the  Proud  One,  knelt . 
Such  the  refined  Intelligence  that  glow'd 
In  Moussa's  frame,  —  and,  thence  descending,  flow'd 
Through  many  a  Prophet's  breast ;  —  in  Issa  shone, 
And  in  Mohammed  burn'd ;  till,  hast'ning  on, 
(As  a  bright  river  that,  from  fall  to  fall 
In  many  a  maze  descending,  brignt  through  all, 
Finds  some  fair  region  where,  each  labyrinth  pass'd, 
In  one  full  lake  of  light  it  rests  at  last,) 
That  Holy  Spirit,  settling  calm  and  free 
From  lapse  or  shadow,  centres  all  in  me ! " 


24  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Again,  throughout  th'  assembly  at  these  words, 
Thousands  of  voices  rung:  the  warriors'  swords 
Were  pointed  up  to  heaven  ;  a  sudden  wind 
In  th'  open  banners  play'd,  and  from  behind 
Those  Persian  hangings,  that  but  ill  could  screen 
The  Haram's  loveliness,  white  hands  were  seen 
Waving  embroidered  scarfs,  whose  motion  gave 
A  perfume  forth  —  like  those  the  Houris  wave 
When  beck'ning  to  their  bow'rs  th'  immortal  Brave. 


"  But  these,"  pursued  the  Chief,  "  are  truths  sublime 
That  claim  a  holier  mood  and  calmer  time 
Than  earth  allows  us  now  ;  —  this  sword  must  first, 
The  darkling  prison-house  of  Mankind  burst, 
Ere  Peace  can  visit  them,  or  Truth  let  in 
Her  wakening  daylight  on  a  world  of  sin. 
But  then,  —  celestial  warriors,  then,  when  all 
Earth's  shrines  and  thrones  before  our  banner  fall ; 
When  the  glad  Slave  shall  at  these  feet  lay  down 
His  broken  chain,  the  tyrant  Lord  his  crown, 
The  Priest  his  book,  the  Conqueror  his  wreath, 
And  from  the  lips  of  Truth  one  mighty  breath 
Shall,  like  a  whirlwind,  scatter  in  its  breeze 
That  whole  dark  pile  of  human  mockeries  ;  — 
Then  shall  the  reign  of  mind  commence  on  earth, 
And  starting  fresh  as  from  a  second  birth, 
Man,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  world's  new  spring, 
Shall  walk  transparent,  like  some  holy  thing ! 
Then,  too,  your  Prophet  from  his  angel  brow 
Shall  cast  the  Veil  that  hides  its  splendors  now, 
And  gladden'd  Earth  shall,  through  her  wide  expanse, 
Bask  in  the  glories  of  this  countenance ! 


LALLA    ROOKH.  25 

"  For  thee,  young  warrior,  Avelcome !  —  thou  hast  yet 
Borne  tasks  to  learn,  some  frailties  to  forget, 
Ere  the  white  war-plume  o'er  thy  brow  can  wave ;  — 
But,  once  my  own,  mine  all  till  in  the  grave  ! " 

The  pomp  is  at  an  end  —  the  crowds  are  gone  — 
Each  ear  and  heart  still  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  that  deep  voice  which  thrilled  like  Alla's  own ! 
The  Young  all  dazzled  by  the  plumes  and  lances, 
The  glitt'ring  throne,  and  Haram's  half-caught  glances 
The  Old  deep  pond'ring  on  the  promised  reign 
Of  peace  and  truth :  and  all  the  female  train 
Ready  to  risk  their  eyes,  could  they  but  gaze 
A  moment  on  that  brow's  miraculous  blaze  ! 

But  there  was  one,  among  the  chosen  maids, 
Who  blush'd  behind  the  gallery's  silken  shades, 
One,  to  whose  soul  the  pageant  of  to-day 
Has  been  like  death :  —  you  saw  her  pale  dismay, 
Ye  wond'ring  sisterhood,  and  heard  the  burst 
Of  exclamation  from  her  lips,  when  first 
She  saw  that  youth,  too  well,  too  dearly  known, 
Silently  kneeling  at  the  Prophet's  throne 

Ah  Zelica !  there  ivas  a  time,  when  bliss 
Shone  o'er  thy  heart  from  every  look  of  his ; 
When  but  to  see  him,  hear  him,  breathe  the  air 
In  which  he  dwelt,  was  thy  soul's  fondest  prayer 
When  round  him  hung  such  a  perpetual  spell, 
Whate'er  he  did,  none  ever  did  so  well. 
Too  happy  days !  when,  if  he  touch'd  a  flow'r 
Or  gem  of  thine,  't  was  sacred  from  that  hour ; 
When  thou  didst  study  him  till  every  tone 
And  gesture  and  dear  look  became  thy  own,  — 


26  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Tliy  voice  like  his,  the  changes  of  his  face 
In  thine  reflected  with  still  lovelier  grace, 
Like  echo,  sending  back  sweet  music,  fraugnt 
With  twice  th'  aerial  sweetness  it  had  brought 
Yet  now  he  comes,  —  brighter  than  even  he 
E'er  beam'd  before,  —  but,  ah  !  not  bright  for  the© 
No  —  dread,  unlook'd  for,  like  a  visitant 
From  tli'  other  world,  he  comes  as  if  to  haunt 
Thy  guilty  soul  with  dreams  of  lost  delight, 
Long  lost  to  all  but  mem'ry's  aching  sight ;  — 
Sad  dreams  !  as  when  the  Spirit  of  our  Youth 
Returns  in  sleep,  sparkling  with  all  the  truth 
And  innocence  once  ours,  and  leads  us  back, 
In  mournful  mockery,  o'er  the  shining  track 
Of  our  young  life,  and  points  out  every  ray 
Of  hope  and  peace  we  've  lost  upon  the  way ! 


Once  happy  pair !  —  In  proud  Bokhara's  groves 
Who  has  not  heard  of  their  first  youthful  loves  ? 
Born  by  that  ancient  flood,  which  from  its  spring 
In  the  dark  Mountains  swiftly  wandering, 
Enrich'd  by  ev'ry  pilgrim  brook  that  shines 
With  relics  from  Bucharia's  ruby  mines, 
And,  lending  to  the  Caspian  half  its  strength, 
In  the  cold  Lake  of  Eagles  sinks  at  length ;  — 
There,  on  the  banks  of  that  bright  river  born, 
The  flow'rs  that  hung  above  its  wave  at  morn, 
Bless'd  not  the  waters,  as  they  murmur'd  by, 
With  holier  scent  and  lustre,  than  the  sigh 
And  virgin-glance  of  first  affection  cast 
Upon  their  youth's  smooth  current,  as  it  pass'd ! 
But  war  disturb'd  this  vision,  —  far  away 
From  her  fond  eyes  summon'd  to  join  th'  array 


sn=s==rrr^: 


LALLA    ROOKH.  ii7 

Of  Persia's  warriors  on  the  hills  of  Thrace, 
The  youth  exchanged  his  sylvan  dwelling-place 
For  the  rude  tent  and  war-held's  dreadful  clash ; 
His  Zelica's  sweet  glances  for  the  flash 
Of  Grecian  wild-fire,  and  Love's  gentle  chains 
For  bleeding  bondage  on  Byzantium's  plains. 

Month  after  month,  in  widowhood  of  soul 
Drooping,  the  maiden  saw  two  summers  roll 
Their  suns  away  —  but,  ah,  how  cold  and  dim 
Ev'n  summer  suns,  when  not  beheld  with  him ! 
From  time  to  time  ill-omen'd  rumors  came, 
Like  spirit-tongues,  mutt'ring  the  sick  man's  name,. 
Just  ere  he  dies :  —  at  length  those  sounds  of  dread 
Fell  with'ring  on  her  soul,  "  Azim  is  dead  !  " 
Oh  Grief,  beyond  all  other  griefs,  when  fate 
First  leaves  the  young  heart  lone  and  desolate 
In  the  wide  world,  without  that  only  tie 
For  which  it  loved  to  live  or  fear'd  to  die  ;  — 
Lorn  as  the  hung-up  lute,  that  ne'er  hath  spoken 
Since  the  sad  day  its  master-chord  was  broken ! 

Fond  maid,  the  sorrow  of  her  soul  was  such, 
Ev'n  reason  sunk,  —  blighted  beneath  its  touch  ; 
And  though,  ere  long,  her  sanguine  spirit  rose 
Above  the  first  dread  pressure  of  its  woes, 
Though  health  and  bloom  return'd,  the  delicate  ahaia 
Of  thought,  once  tangled,  never  clear'd  again. 
Warm,  lively,  soft  as  in  youth's  happiest  day, 
The  mind  was  still  all  there,  but  turn'd  astray  ;  — 
A  wand'ring  bark,  upon  whose  pathway  shone 
All  stars  of  heaven,  except  the  guiding  one  ! 
Again  she  smiled,  nay,  much  and  brightly  smiled. 
But  'twas  a  lustre,  strange,  unreal,  wild; 


28  LALLA    ROOKH. 

And  when  s  le  sung  to  her  lute's  touching  strain, 
T  was  like  the  notes,  half  ecstacy,  half  pain, 
The  bulbul  utters,  ere  her  soul  depart, 
When,  vanquish'd  by  some  minstrel's  pow'rful  art, 
She  dies  upon  the  lute  whose  sweetness  broke    nei 
heart! 

Such  was  the  mood  in  Avhich  that  mission  found 
Young  Zelica,  —  that  mission,  which  around 
The  Eastern  world,  in  every  region  bless'd 
With  woman's  smile,  sought  out  its  loveliest, 
To  grace  that  galaxy  of  lips  and  eyes 
Which  the  Veil'd  Prophet  destined  for  the  skies:  — 
And  such  quick  welcome  as  a  spark  receives 
Dropp'd  on  a  bed  of  Autumn's  wither'd  leaves, 
Did  every  tale  of  these  enthusiasts  find 
In  the  wild  maiden's  sorrow-blighted  mind. 
All  fire,  at  once  the  madd'ning  zeal  she  caught ;  - 
Elect  of  Paradise  !  blest,  rapturous  thought! 
Predestined  bride,  in  heaven's  eternal  dome, 
Of  some  brave  youth  —  ha!  durst  they  say  "of  some?* 
No  —  of  the  one,  one  only  object  traced 
In  her  heart's  core  too  deep  to  be  effaced ; 
The  one  whose  mem'ry,  fresh  as  life,  is  twined 
With  every  broken  link  of  her  lost  mind  ; 
Whose  image  lives,  though  Reason's  self  be  WTe<  k'd, 
Safe  'mid  the  ruins  of  her  intellect! 

Alas,  poor  Zelica!  it  needed  all 
The  fantasy,  which  held  thy  mind  in  thrall, 
To  see  in  that  gay  Haram's  glowing  maids 
\  shaded  colony  for  Eden's  shades  ; 
Or  dream  that  he,  —  of  whose  unholy  flame 
Thou  wert  too  soon  the  victim,  —  shining  came 


LALLA     ROOKH.  2J» 

Prom  Paradise,  to  people  its  pure  sphere 

With  souls  like  thine,  which  he  hath  ruin'd  here 

No  —  had  not  reason's  light  totally  set, 

And  left  thee  dark,  thou  hadst  an  amulet 

In  the  loved  image,  graven  on  thy  heart, 

Which  would  have  saved  thee  from  the  temptei'a  art. 

And  kept  alive,  in  all  its  bloom  of  breath, 

That  purity,  whose  fading  is  love's  deatli !  — 

But  lost,  inflamed,  —  a  restless  zeal  took  place 

Of  the  mild  virgin's  still  and  feminine  grace  ; 

First  of  the  Prophet's  favorites  proudly  first 

In  zeal  and  charms,  —  too  well  th'  Impostor  nursed 

Her  soul's  delirium,  in  whose  active  flame, 

Thus  lighting  up  a  young,  luxuriant  frame, 

He  saw  more  potent  sorceries  to  bind 

To  his  dark  yoke  the  spirits  of  mankind, 

More  subtle  chains  than  hell  itself  e'er  twined. 

No  art  was  spared,  no  witch'ry ;  —  all  the  skill 

His  demons  taught  him  was  employ'd  to  fill 

Her  mind  with  gloom  and  ecstacy  by  turns  — 

That  gloom,  through  which  Frenzy  but  fiercer  burns 

That  ecstacy,  which  from  the  depth  of  sadness 

Glares  like  the  maniac's  moon,  whose  light  is  madness 

'T  was  from  a  brilliant  banquet,  where  the  sound 

Of  poesy  and  music  breathed  around, 

Together  picturing  to  her  mind  and  ear 

The  glories  of  that  heav'n,  her  destined  sphere, 

Where  all  was  pure,  where  every  stain  that  lay 

Upon  the  spirit's  light  should  pass  away, 

And,  realizing  more  than  youthful  love 

E'er  wish'd  or  dream'd,  she  should  for  ever  rove 

Through  fields  of  fragrance  by  her  Azim's  side 

HJs  own  bless'd,  purified,  eternal  bride  !  — 
3* 


30  LALLA    ROOKH. 

'T  was  from  a  scene,  a  witching  trance  like  this, 
He  hurried  her  away,  yet  breathing  bliss, 
To  the  dim  charnel-house  ;  —  through  all  its  steams 
Of  damp  and  death,  led  only  by  those  gleams 
Which  foul  corruption  lights,  as  with  design 
To  show  the  gay  and  proud  she  too  can  shine  — 
And,  passing  on  through  upright  ranks  of  Dead, 
Which  to  the  maiden,  doubly  crazed  by  dread, 
Seem'd,  through  the  bluish  death-light  round  them  cas^ 
To  move  their  lips  in  mutt'rings  as  she  pass'd  — 
There,  in  that  awful  place,  when  each  had  quafFd 
And  pledged  in  silence  such  a  fearful  draught, 
Such  —  oh !  the  look  and  taste  of  that  red  bowl 
Will  haunt  her  till  she  dies  —  he  bound  her  soul 
By  a  dark  oath,  in  hell's  own  language  framed, 
Never,  while  earth  his  mystic  presence  claim'd, 
While  the  blue  arch  of  day  hung  o'er  them  both, 
Never,  by  that  all-imprecating  oath, 
In  joy  or  sorrow  from  his  side  to  sever. — 
She  swore,  and  the  wide  charnel  echoed,  "Never,  never ! ' 

From  that  dread  hour,  entirely,  wildly  giv'n 
To  him  and  —  she  believed,  lost  maid !  —  to  heav'n  , 
Her  brain,  her  heart,  her  passions  all  inflamed, 
How  proud  she  stood,  when  in  full  Haram  named 
The  Priestess  of  the  Faith  !  —  how  flash'd  her  eyes 
With  light,  alas,  that  was  not  of  the  skies, 
When  round,  in  trances,  only  less  than  hers, 
She  saw  the  Haram  kneel,  her  prostrate  worshippera. 
Well  might  Mokanna  think  that  form  alone 
Had  spells  enough  to  make  the  world  his  own :  — 
Light,  lovely  limbs,  to  which  the  spirit's  play 
Gave  motion,  airy  as  the  dancing  spray, 
When  from  its  stem  the  small  bird  wings  away . 


LALLA     ROOKH.  31 

Lips,  in  whose  rosy  labyrinth,  when  she  smiled, 

The  soul  was  lost ;  and  blushes,  swift  and  wild 

As  are  the  momentary  meteors  sent 

A.  ;ross  Ui"  uncalm,  but  beauteous  firmament. 

And  then  her  look  —  oh !  where 's  the  heart  so  wi36 

Could  unbewilder'd  meet  those  matchless  eyes  ? 

Quick,  restless,  strange,  but  exquisite  withal, 

Like  those  of  angels,  just  before  their  fall ; 

Now  shadow'd  with  the  shames  of  earth  —  now  cross'd 

By  glimpses  of  the  Heav'n  her  heart  had  lost; 

In  ev'ry  glance  there  broke,  without  control, 

The  flashes  of  a  bright  but  troubled  soul, 

Where  sensibility  still  wildly  play'd, 

Like  lightning,  round  the  ruins  it  had  made  ! 

And  such  was  now  young  Zelica  —  so  changed 
From  her  who,  some  years  since,  delighted  ranged 
The  almond  groves  that  shade  Bokhara's  tide, 
All  life  and  bliss,  with  A  aim  by  her  side  ! 
So  alter'd  was  she  now,  this  festal  day, 
When,  'mid  the  proud  Divan's  dazzling  array, 
The  vision  of  that  Youth  whom  she  had  loved, 
Had  wept  as  dead,  before  her  breathed  and  moved  ;  • 
When  —  bright,  she  thought,  as  if  from  Eden's  trar.k 
But  half-way  trodden,  he  had  wander  d  back 
Ajjain  to  earth,  glist'ning  with  Eden's  light  — 
Her  beauteous  Azim  shone  before  her  sight 

O  Reason !  who  shall  say  what  spells  renew, 
When  least  we  look  for  it,  thy  broken  clew ! 
Through  what  small  vistas  o'er  the  darkened  brain 
Thy  intellectual  day-beam  bursts  again; 
And  how,  like  forts,  to  which  beleaguerers  win 
Unhoped-for  entrance  through  some  friend  within 


OtJ  LALLA    ROOKH 

One  clear  idea,  waken'd  in  the  breast 

By  mem'ry's  magic,  lets  in  all  the  rest 

Would  it  were  thus,  unhappy  girl,  with  thee ! 

But  though  light  came,  it  came  but  partially  ; 

Enough  to  show  the  maze,  in  which  thy  sense 

Wander'd  about,  —  but  not  to  guide  it  thence  ; 

Enough  to  glimmer  o'er  the  yawning  wave, 

But  not  to  point  the  harbor  which  might  save. 

Hours  of  delight  and  peace,  long  left  behind, 

With  that  dear  form  came  rusliing  o'er  her  mind ; 

But,  oh !  to  think  how  deep  her  soul  had  gone 

In  shame  and  falsehood  since  those  moments  shone 

And,  then,  her  oath  —  there  madness  lay  again, 

And,  shudd'ring,  back  she  sunk  into  her  chain 

Of  mental  darkness,  as  if  blest  to  flee 

From  light,  whose  every  glimpse  was  agony ! 

Yet,  one  relief  this  glance  of  former  years 

Brought,  mingled  with  its  pain,  —  tears,  floods  of  tearn 

Long  frozen  at  her  heart,  but  now  like  rills 

Let  loose  in  spring-time  from  the  snowy  hills, 

And  gushing  warm,  after  a  sleep  of  frost, 

Tlirough  valleys  where  their  flow  had  long  been  lost. 


Sad  and  subdued,  for  the  first  time  her  frame 
Trembled  with  horror,  when  the  summons  came, 
(A  summons  proud  and  rare,  which  all  but  she, 
And  she,  till  now,  had  heard  with  ecstasy,) 
To  meet  Mokanna  at  his  place  of  prayer, 
A  garden  oratory,  cool  and  fair, 
Sy  the  stream's  side,  where  still  at  close  of  day 
Tb.3  Prophet  of  the  Veil  retired  to  pray  ; 
Sometimes  alone  —  but  oftener  far,  with  one 
One  chosen  nymph  to  share  his  orison. 


LALLA    RO  3KH. 


33 


Of  late  none  found  such  favor  in  his  sight 
As  the  young  Priestess  ;  and  though,  since  that  night 
When  the  death-caverns  echo'd  every  tone 
Ot  the  dire  oath  that  made  her  all  his  own, 
Th'  Impostor,  sure  of  his  infatuate  prize, 
Had,  more  than  once,  thrown  off  his  soul's  disguise 
And  utter'd  such  unheav'nly,  monstrous  things, 
As  ev'n  across  the  desp'rate  wanderings 
Of  a  weak  intellect,  whose  lamp  was  out, 
Threw  startling  shadows  of  dismay  and  doubt ;  — 
Yet  zeal,  ambition,  her  tremendous  vow, 
The  thought,  still  haunting  her,  of  that  bright  brow, 
Whose  blaze,  as  yet  from  mortal  eye  conceal'd, 
Would  soon,  proud  triumph !  be  to  her  reveal'd, 
To  her  alone  ;  —  and  then  the  hope,  most  dear, 
Most  wild  of  all,  that  her  transgression  here 
Was  but  a  passage  through  earth's  grosser  fire, 
From  which  the  spirit  would  at  last  aspire, 
Ev'n  purer  than  before,  —  as  perfumes  rise 
Through    flame    and    smoke,   most    welcome    tc    the 

skies  — 
And  that  when  Azim's  fond,  divine  embrace 
Should  circle  her  in  heav'n,  no  dark'ning  trace 
Would  on  that  bosom  he  once  loved  remain, 
But  all  be  bright,  be  pure,  be  his  again  !  — 
These  were  the  wild'ring  dreams,  whose  cursed  deceit 
Had  chain'd  her  soul  beneath  the  tempter's  feet, 
And  made  her  think  ev'n  damning  falsehood  sweet 
But  now  that  Shape,  which  had  appall'd  her  view, 
That  Semblance  —  oh  how  terrible,  if  true ! 
Which  came  across  her  frenzy's  full  career 
With  shock  of  consciousness,  cold,  deep,  seve.-e, 
As  when,  in  northern  seas,  at  midnight  dark, 
\n  isle  of  ice  encounters  s<  'jark, 


34  LAT.T.A    ROOKn. 

And,  startling  all  its  wretches  from  their  sleep, 
By  one  cold  impulse  hurls  them  to  the  deep  ;  — 
So  came  that  shock  not  frenzy's  self  could  bear 
And  waking  up  each  long-lull'd  image  there, 
But  check'd  her  headlong  soul,  to  sink  it  in  despair ! 

Wan  and  dejected,  through  the  ev'ning  dusk, 
She  now  went  slowly  to  that  small  kiosk, 
Where,  pondering  alone  liis  impious  schemes, 
Mokanna  waited  her  —  too  wrapt  in  dreams 
Of  the  fair-rip'ning  future's  rich  success, 
To  heed  the  sorrow,  pale  and  spiritless, 
That  sat  upon  his  victim's  downcast  brow, 
Or  mark  how  slow  her  step,  how  alter'd  now 
From  the  quick,  ardent  Priestess,  whose  light  bound 
Came  like  a  spirit's  o'er  th'  unechoing  ground,  — 
From  that  wild  Zelica,  whose  ev'ry  glance 
Was  tlrrilling  fire,  whose  ev'ry  thought  a  trance ! 

Upon  his  couch  the  Veil'd  Mokanna  lay, 
While  lamps  around  —  not  such  as  lend  their  ray, 
Glimm'ring  and  cold,  to  those  who  nightly  pray 
In  holy  Koom,  or  Mecca's  dim  arcades,  — 
But  brilliant,  soft,  such  lights  as  lovely  maids 
Look  loveliest  in,  shed  their  luxurious  glow 
Upon  his  mystic  Veil's  white  glitt'ring  flow. 
Beside  him,  'stead  of  beads  and  books  of  pray'r, 
Which  the  world  fondly  thought  he  mused  on  there4 
Stood  Vases,  fill'd  with  Kishmee's  golden  wine, 
And  the  red  weepings  of  the  Shiraz  vine ; 
Of  which  his  curtain'd  lips  full  many  a  draught 
Took  zealously,  as  if  each  drop  they  quaff'd. 
Like  Zemzem's  Spring  of  Holiness,  had  pow"r 
To  freshen  tbe  soul's  virtues  Lite  flow'r! 


LALLA    ROOKH.  35 

And  still  lie  drank  and  ponder'd  —  nor  could  see 

Th'  approaching  maid,  so  deep  his  revery ; 

At  length,  with  fiendish  laugh,  like  that  which  broke 

From  Eblis  at  the  Fall  of  Man,  he  spoke  :  — 

"  Yes,  ye  vile  race,  for  hell's  amusement  given, 

Too  mean  for  earth,  yet  claiming  kin  with  heav'n ; 

God's  images,  forsooth  !  —  such  gods  as  he 

Whom  India  serves,  the  monkey  deity  ;  — 

Ye  creatures  of  a  breath,  proud  things  of  clay, 

To  whom  if  Lucifer,  as  grandams  say, 

Refused,  though  at  the  forfeit  of  heaven's  light, 

To  bend  in  worship,  Lucifer  was  right !  — 

Soon  shall  I  plant  this  foot  upon  the  neck 

Of  your  foul  race,  and  without  fear  or  check, 

Luxuriating  in  hate,  avenge  my  shame, 

My  deep-felt,  long- nursed  loathing  of  man's  name !  — 

Soon  at  the  head  of  myriads,  blind  and  fierce 

As  hooded  falcons,  through  the  universe 

I  '11  sweep  my  dark'ning,  desolating  way, 

Weak  man  my  instrument,  cursed  man  my  prey  ! 

"  Ye  wise,  ye  learn'd,  who  grope  your  dull  way  on 
By  the  dim  twinkling  gleams  of  ages  gone, 
Like  superstitious  thieves,  who  think  the  light 
From  dead  men's  marrow  guides  them  best  at  night  — 
Ye  shall  have  honors  —  wealth  —  yes,  Sages,  yes  — 
I  know,  grave  fools,  your  wisdom's  nothingness  ; 
Undazzled  it  can  track  yon  starry  sphere, 
But  a  gilt  stick,  a  bauble  blinds  it  here. 
How  shall  I  laugh,  when  trumpeted  along, 
In  lying  speech,  and  still  more  lying  song, 
By  these  learn'd  slaves,  the  meanest  of  the  throng; 
Their  wits  bought  up,  their  wisdom  shrunk  so  small, 
A  sceptre's  puny  point  can  wield  it  all  I 


36  LALLA    ROOKH. 

"  Ye  too,  believers  of  incredible  creeds, 
Whose  faith  enshrines  the  monsters  which  it  breeds 
Who,  bolder  ev'n  than  Neinrod,  think  to  rise, 
By  nonsense  heap'd  on  nonsense,  to  the  skies ; 
Ye  shall  have  miracles,  ay,  sound  ones  too, 
Seen,  heard,  attested,  ev'ry  tiling  —  but  true. 
Your  preaching  zealots,  too  inspired  to  seek 
One  grace  of  meaning  for  the  things  they  speak , 
Your  martyrs,  ready  to  shed  out  their  blood, 
For  truths  too  heav'nly  to  be  understood  ; 
And  your  State  Priests,  sole  venders  of  the  lore, 
That  works  salvation ;  —  as,  on  Ava's  shore, 
Where  none  but  priests  are  privileged  to  trade 
In  that  best  marble  of  which  Gods  are  made ; 
They  shall  have  mysteries  —  ay,  precious  stuff, 
For  knaves  to  thrive  by  —  mysteries  enough  ; 
Dark,  tangled  doctrines,  dark  as  fraud  can  weave, 
Which  simple  votaries  shall  on  trust  receive, 
While  craftier  feign  belief,  till  they  believe. 
A  Heav'n  too  ye  must  have,  ye  lords  of  dust,  — 
A  splendid  paradise,  —  pure  souls,  ye  must : 
That  Prophet  ill  sustains  his  holy  call, 
Who  finds  not  heav'ns  to  suit  the  tastes  of  all : 
Houris  for  boys,  omniscience  for  sages, 
And  wings  and  glories  for  all  ranks  and  ages. 
Vain  things  !  —  as  lust  or  vanity  inspires, 
The  heav'n  of  each  is  but  what  each  desires, 
And,  soul  or  sense,  whate'er  the  object  be, 
Man  would  be  man  to  all  eternity  ! 
So  let  him  —  Eblis !  —  grant  this  crowning  curse, 
But  keep  him  what  he  is,  no  Hell  were  worse." 

"  Oh  my  lost  soul ! "  exclaim'd  the  shudd'ring  maid, 
Whose  ears  had  drank  like  poison  all  he  said :  — 


LALLA    ROOEH.  37 

Mokanna  started-   nit  abash'd,  afraid, — 

He  knew  no  more  of  fear  than  one  who  dwells 

Beneath  the  tropics  knows  of  icicles ! 

But  in  those  dismal  words  that  reach'd  his  ear, 

"  Oh  my  lost  soul ! "  there  was  a  sound  so  drear, 

So  like  that  voice,  among  the  sinful  dead, 

In  which  the  legend  o'er  Hell's  Gate  is  read, 

That,  new  as  't  was  from  her,  whom  naught  could  dim 

Or  sink  till  now,  it  startled  even  him. 

"  Ha,  my  fair  Priestess !  "  —  thus,  with  ready  wile, 
Th'  Impostor  turn'd  to  greet  her —  "  thou,  whose  smile 
Hath  inspiration  in  its  rosy  beam 
Beyond  th'  Enthusiast's  hope  or  Prophet's  dream , 
Light  of  the  Faith !  who  twin'st  religion's  zeal 
So  close  with  love's,  men  know  not.  which  they  feel. 
Nor  which  to  sigh  for,  in  their  trance  of  heart, 
The  heav'n  thou  preachest  or  the  heav'n  thou  art ! 
What  should  I  be  without  thee?  without  thee 
How  dull  were  power,  how  joyless  victory ! 
Though  borne  by  angels,  if  that  smile  of  thine 
Bless'd  not  my  banner,  't  were  but  half  divine. 
But  —  why  so  mournful,  child  ?  those  eyes,  that  shone 
All  life  last  night  —  what !  —  is  their  glory  gone  ? 
Come,  come  —  this  morn's  fatigue  hath  made  them  pale, 
They  want  rekindling  —  suns  themselves  would  fai 
Did  not  their  comets  bring,  as  I  to  thee, 
From  light's  own  fount  supplies  of  brilliancy 
Thou  seest  this  cup  —  no  juice  of  earth  is  here, 
But  the  pure  waters  of  that  upper  sphere. 
Whose  rills  o'er  ruby  beds  and  topaz  flow, 
Catcnmg  the  gem's  bright  color,  as  they  go. 
Nightly  my  Genii  come  and  fill  these  urns  — 
Nay,  drink  —  in  ev'ry  drop  life's  essence  burns ; 


39  LAI.LA    ROOKH. 

5T  will  make  th  .t  soul  all  fire,  those  eyes  all  light  — 

Come,  come,  I  want  thy  loveliest  smiles  to-nignt: 

There  is  a  youth  —  why  start?  —  thou  saw'st  him  thea 

Look'd  he  not  nobly  ?  such  the  godlike  men 

Thou  'It  have  to  woo  thee  in  the  bow'rs  above; — 

Though  he,  I  fear,  hath  thoughts  too  stern  for  love, 

Too  ruled  by  that  cold  enemy  of  bliss 

The  world  calls  virtue  —  we  must  conquer  this  ; 

Nay,  shrink  not,  pretty  sage  !  'tis  not  for  thee 

To  scan  the  mazes  of  Heav'n's  mystery  : 

The  steel  must  pass  through  fire,  ere  it  can  yield 

Fit  instruments  for  mighty  hands  to  wield. 

This  very  night  I  mean  to  try  the  art 

Of  powerful  beauty  on  that  warrior's  heart. 

All  that  my  Ilaram  boasts  of  bloom  and  wit, 

Of  skill  and  charms,  most  rare  and  exquisite, 

Shall  tempt  the  boy;  —  young  Mirzala's  blue  eyes, 

Whose  sleepy  lid  like  snow  on  violets  lk-s  ; 

Arouya's  cheeks,  warm  as  a  spring-day  sun, 

And  lips  that,  like  the  seal  of  Solomon, 

Have  magic  in  their  pressure ;  Zeba's  lute, 

And  Lilla's  dancing  feet,  that  gleam  and  shoot 

Rapid  and  white  as  sea-birds  o'er  the  deep  — 

All  shall  combine  their  witching  powers  to  steep 

My  convert's  spirit  in  that  soft'ning  trance. 

From  which  to  heav'n  is  but  tne  next  advance  ,  — 

That  glowing,  yielding  fusion  of  the  breast, 

On  which  Religion  stamps  her  image  best 

But  hear  me,  Priestess  !  —  though  each  nymph  of  theen 

Hath  some  peculiar,  practised  pow'r  to  please, 

Some  glance  or  step  which,  at  the  mirror  tried, 

First  charms  herself,  then  all  the  world  beside ; 

There  still  wants  one,  to  make  the  vict'ry  sure, 

One  who  in  every  look  joins  every  lure; 


LALLA    ROOKH.  3D 

Through  whom  all  beauty's  beams  concentred  puss, 
Dazzling  and  warm,  as  through  love's  burning  glass  ; 
Whose  gentle  lips  persuade  without  a  word, 
Whose  words,  ev'n  when  unmeaning,  are  adored 
Like  inarticulate  breathings  from  a  shrine, 
Which  our  faith  takes  fur  granted  are  divine ! 
Such  is  the  nymph  we  want,  all  warmth  and  light, 
To  crown  the  rich  temptations  of  to-night ; 
Such  tire  refined  enchantress  that  must  be 
This  hero's  vanquisher,  —  and  thou  art  she  !  " 

With  her  hands  clasp'd,  her  lips  apart  and  pale, 
The  maid  had  stood,  gazing  upon  the  Veil 
From  which  these  words,  like  south  winds  through  a 

fence 
Of  Kerzrah  flow'rs,  came  ll] I'd  with  pestilence ; 
So  boldly  utter'd  too !  as  if  all  dread 
Of  frowns  from  her,  of  virtuous  frowns,  were  fled, 
And  the  wretch  felt  assured  that,  once  plunged  in. 
Her  woman's  soul  would  know  no  pause  in  sin! 

At  first,  though  mute  she  listen'd,  like  a  dream 
Seem'd  all  he  said:  nor  could  her  mind,  whose  beam 
As  yet  was  weak,  penetrate  half  his  scheme. 
But  when,  at  length,  he  utter'd,  "  Thou  art  she ! '' 
All  iiash'd  at  once,  and  shrieking  piteously, 
u  Oh  not  for  worlds!"  she  cried  —  "GreatGui!  Lowk.os 
I  once  knelt  innocent,  is  this  my  doom  ? 
Are  all  my  dreams,  my  hopes  of  heav'nly  bll$3, 
My  purity,  my  pride,  then  come  to  this,  — 
To  live,  the  wanton  of  a  fiend  !  to  be 
The  pander  of  his  guilt  —  oh  infamy ! 
And  sunk,  myself,  as  low  as  hell  can  steep 
In  its  hot  flood  drag  others  down  as  deep ' 


40  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Others  —  ha !  yes  —  that  youth  who  c  ame  to-day  — 
JYot  him  I  loved  —  not  him  —  oh !  do  but  say, 
But  swear  to  me  this  moment 't  is  not  he, 
And  I  will  serve,  dark  fiend,  will  worship  even  thee !  s 

Beware,  young  raving  thing ;  —  in  time  bewaro, 
Nor  utter  what  I  cannot,  must  not  bear, 
Etrn  from  thy  lips.     Go  —  try  thy  lute,  thy  voice, 
The  boy  must  feel  their  magic;  —  I  rejoice 
To  see  those  fires,  no  matter  whence  they  rise, 
Once  more  illuming  my  fair  Priestess'  eyes ; 
And  should  the  youth,  whom  soon  those  eyes  shall  warn 
Indeed  resemble  thy  dead  lover's  form, 
So  much  the  happier  wilt  thou  find  thy  doom, 
As  one  warm  lover,  full  of  life  and  bloom, 
Excels  ten  thousand  cold  ones  in  the  tomb. 
Nay,  nay,  no  frowning,  sweet!  —  those  eyes  were  mad* 
For  love,  not  anger  —  I  must  be  obey'd." 

"  Obeyed !  —  't  is  well  —  yes,  I  deserve  it  all  - 
On  me,  on  me  Heav'n's  vengeance  cannot  fall 
Too  heavily  —  but  Azim,  brave  and  true 
And  beautiful  —  must  he  be  ruin'd  too  ? 
Must  he  too,  glorious  as  he  is,  be  driven 
A  renegade  like  me  from  Love  and  Heaven  ? 
Like  me  ?  —  weak  wretch,  I  wrong  him  —  not  like  rat 
No  —  he  's  all  truth  and  strength  and  purity ! 
Fill  up  your  madd'ning  hell-cup  to  the  brim, 
Its  witch'ry,  fiends,  will  have  no  charm  for  him. 
Let  loose  your  glowing  wantons  from  their  bow'rs, 
He  loves,  he  loves,  and  can  defy  their  powers  ! 
Wretch  as  I  am,  in  his  heart  still  I  reign 
Pure  as  when  first  we  met,  without  a  stain ' 


LALLA    HOOKH.  41 

Though  ruin'd  —  lost  —  my  mem  ry,  like  a  charm 
Left  by  the  dead,  still  keeps  his  soul  from  harm. 
Oh  !  never  let  him  know  how  deep  the  brow 
He.kiss'd  at  parting,  is  dishonor'd  now  ;  — 
Ne'er  tell  him  how  debased,  how  sunk  is  she, 
Whom  once  he  loved  —  once!  —  si'dl  loves   dotmgly 
Thou  laugh'st,  tormentor  —  what !  —  thou  'It  brand  my 

name  ? 
Do,  do  —  in  vain  —  he  '11  not  believe  my  shame  — 
He  thinks  me  true,  that  naught  beneath  God's  sky 
Could  tempt  or  change  me,  and — so  once  thought  L 
But  this  is  past  —  though  worse  than  death  my  lot, 
Than  hell  —  't  is  nothing  while  he  knows  it  not. 
Far  off  to  some  benighted  land  I  '11  fly, 
Where  sunbeams  ne'er  shall  enter  till  I  die  ; 
Where  none  will  ask  the  lost  one  whence  she  came, 
But  1  may  fade  and  fall  without  a  name. 
And  thou  —  cursed  man  or  fiend,  whate'er  thou  art, 
Who  found'st  this  burning  plague  spot  in  my  heart, 
And  spread'st  it  —  oh,  so  quick! — through  soul  and 

frame, 
With  more  than  demon's  art,  till  I  became 
A  loathsome  thing,  all  pestilence,  all  flame  !  — 
If,  when  I  'm  gone " 

"  Hold,  fearless  maniac,  hold, 
Nor  tempt  my  rage  —  by  Heaven,  not  half  so  bold 
The  puny  )ird,  that  dares  with  teasing  hum 
Within  the  crocodile's  stretch'd  jaws  to  come ; 
And  so  thou  'It  fly,  forsooth  ?  —  what !  —  g?ve  up  all 
Thy  chaste  dominion  in  the  Haram  Hall, 
Where  now  to  Love  and  now  to  Alia  given, 
Half  mistress  and  half  saint,  thou  hang'st  as  even 
As  doth  Medina's  tomb,  'twix .  hell  and  heaven ' 


42  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Tliou  'It  fly  ?  —  as  easily  may  reptiles  run, 

The  gaunt  snake  once  hath  fix'd  his  eyes  upon , 

As  easily,  when  caught,  the  prey  may  be 

Pluck'd  from  his  loving  folds,  as  thou  from  me. 

No,  no,  'tis  iix'd —  let  good  or  ill  betide, 

Thou  'rt  mine  till  death,  till  death  Mokanna's  bride . 

Hast  thou  forgot  thy  oath  ?"  - 

At  this  dread  word, 
The  Maid,  whose  spirit  his  rude  taunts  had  stirrd 
Through  ail  its  depths,  and  roused  an  anger  there, 
That  burst  and  lighten' d  even  through  her  despair  - 
Shrunk  back,  as  if  a  blight  were  in  the  breath 
That  spoke  that  word,  and  staggerd  pide  as  death. 


"  Yes,  my  sworn  bride,  let  others  seek  in  bow'rs 
Their  bridal  place  —  the  charnel-vault  was  ours! 
Instead  of  scents  and  balms,  for  thee  and  me 
Rose  the  rich  steams  of  sweet  mortality : 
Gay,  rlick'ring  death-lights  shone  w.ile  we  were  wed, 
And,  for  our  guests,  a  row  of  goodly  Dead, 
(Immortal  spirits  in  their  time,  no  doubt,) 
From  reeking  shrouds  upon  the  rite  look'd  out ! 
That  oath  thou  heard'st  more  lips  than  thine  repeat  — 
That  cup  —  thou  shudd'rest,  Lady,  —  was  it  sweet  ? 
That  cup  we  pledged,  the  charnel's  choicest  wine, 
Ilatn  bound  thee  —  ay  —  body  and  soul  all  mine  ; 
Bound  thee  by  chains  that,  whether  bless'd  or  cursed 
No  matter  now,  not  hell  itself  shall  burst ! 
Hence,  woman,  to  the  Haram,  and  look  gay, 
Look  wild,  look  —  any  tiling  but  sad ;  yet  stay  — 
One  moment  more  —  from  what  this  night  hath  pass'd, 
I  see  thou  know'st  me,  know'st  me  well  at  last. 


1ALLA    ROOKH.  4$ 

Ka!  ha!  and  so,  fond  thing,  thou  thought'st  all  true, 

And  that  1  love  mankind  ?  —  I  do,  I  do  — 

As  victims,  love  them;  as  the  sea-dog  dotes 

Upon  the  small,  sweet  fry  that  round  him  floats ; 

Or,  as  the  Nile-bird  loves  the  slime  that  gives 

That  rank  and  venomous  food  on  which  she  lives !  — 

"  And,  now  thou  seest  my  souTs  angelic  hue, 
'T  is  time  these  features  were  uncurtain'd  too  ;  — 
This  brow,  whose  light  —  oh  rare  celestial  light ! 
Hath  been  reserved  to  bless  thy  favor'd  sight ; 
These  dazzling  eyes,  before  whose  shrouded  might 
Thou  'st  seen  immortal  Man  kneel  down  and  quake  — 
Would  that  they  were  heaven's  lightnings  for  his  sake . 
But  turn  and  look  —  then  wonder,  if  thou  wilt, 
That  I  should  hate,  should  take  revenge,  by  guilt, 
Upon  the  hand,  whose  mischief  or  whose  mirth 
Sent  me  thus  maini'd  and  monstrous  upon  earth ; 
And  on  that  race  who,  though  more  vile  they  be 
Than  mowing  apes,  are  demi-gods  to  me  ! 
Here  — judge  if  hell,  with  all  its  power  to  damn, 
Can  add  one  curse  to  the  foul  thing  I  am  !  "  — 

He  raised  his  veil  —  the  Maid  turn'd  slowly  roun«\ 
Look'd  at  him  —  sliriek'd  and  sunk  upon  the  ground ' 


44 


0>  their  arrival,  next  night,  at  the  place  of  encamp, 
ment,  they  were  surprised  and  delighted  to  find  tho 
groves  all  around  illuminated;  some  artists  of  Yam- 
tcheou  having  been  sent  on  previously  for  the  purpose. 
On  each  side  of  the  green  alley  which  led  to  the  B.oyal 
Pavilion,  artificial  sceneries  of  bamboo-work  were 
erected,  representing  arches,  minarets,  and  towers,  from 
which  hung  thousands  of  silken  lanterns,  painted  by 
Jie  most  delicate  pencils  of  Canton.  Nothing  could  be 
more  beautiful  than  the  leaves  of  the  mango-trees  and 
acacias,  shining  in  the  light  of  the  bamboo-scenery,  which 
shed  a  lustre  round  as  soil  as  that  of  the  nights  of  Peristan. 

Lalla  Rookh,  however,  who  was  too  much  occupied 
by  the  sad  story  of  Zelica  and  her  lover,  to  give  a 
thought  to  any  thing  else,  except,  perhaps,  him  who 
related  it,  hurried  on  through  this  scene  of  splendor  to 
her  pavilion,  —  greatly  to  the  mortification  of  the  poor 
artists  of  Yamtcheou,  —  and  was  followed  with  equal 
rapidity  by  the  Great  Chamberlain,  cursing,  as  he  went, 
that  ancient  Mandarin,  whose  parental  anxiety  in  light- 
ing up  the  shores  of  the  lake,  where  his  beloved  daughter 
had  wandered  and  been  lost,  was  the  origin  of  these 
fantastic  Chinese  illuminations. 

Without  a  moment's  delay,  young  Feramorz  wj 
introduced,  and  Fadladeen,  who  could  never  make  14 
his  mind  as  to  the  merits  of  a  poet  till  he  knew  the 
religious  sect  to  which  he  belonged,  was  about  to  ask 
him  whether  he  was  a  Shia  or  a  Sooni,  when  Lalla  Rookh 
impatiently  clapped  her  hands  for  silence,  and  the  youth, 
beiDg  seated  upon  the  musnud  near  her,  proceeded :  — 


45 


Prepare  thy  soul,  young  Azim  !  —  thou  hast  braved 
The  bands  of  Greece,  still  mighty  though  enslaved  ; 
Hast  faced  her  phalanx,  arm'd  with  all  its  fame, 
Her  Macedonian  pikes  and  globes  of  flame ; 
All  this  hast  fronted,  with  firm  heart  and  brow  ; 
But  a  more  perilous  trial  waits  thee  now,  — 
Woman's  bright  eyes,  a  dazzling  host  of  eyes 
From  every  land  where  Avoman  smiles  or  sighs  ; 
Of  every  hue,  as  Love  may  chance  to  raise 
His  black  or  azure  banner  in  their  blaze ; 
And  each  sweet  mode  of  warfare,  from  the  flash 
That  lightens  boldly  through  the  shadowy  lash, 
To  the  sly,  stealing  splendors,  almost  hid, 
Like  swords  half-sheath'd,  beneath  the  downcast  lid ;~ 
Such,  Azim,  is  the  lovely,  luminous  host 
Now  led  against  thee ;  and,  let  conqu'rors  boast 
Their  fields  of  fame,  he  who  in  virtue  arms 
A  young,  warm  spirit  against  beauty's  charms, 
Who  feels  her  brightness,  yet  defies  her  thrall, 
Is  the  best,  bravest  conqu'ror  of  them  alL 


Now,  through  the  Haram  chambers,  moving  lights 
And  busy  shapes  proclaim  the  toilet's  rites  ;  — 
From  room  to  room  the  ready  handmaids  hie, 
Some  skill'd  to  wreath  the  turban  tastefully, 
Or  hang  the  veil,  in  negligence  of  shade, 
O'er  the  warm  blushes  of  the  youthful  maid, 
Who,  if  between  the  folds  but  one  eye  shone, 
Like  Seba's  Queen  could  vanquish  with  that  one : 


#)  LALLA     ROOKII. 

While  some  bring  leaves  of  Henna,  to  imbue 

The  fingers'  ends  with  a  bright  roseate  hue, 

So  bright,  that  in  the  mirror's  depth  they  seem 

Like  tips  of  coral  branches  in  the  stream : 

And  others  mix  the  Kohol's  jetty  dye, 

To  give  that  long,  dark  languish  to  the  eye, 

Which  makes  the  maids,  whom  kings  are  proud  to  caL 

From  fair  Circassia's  vales,  so  beautiful. 

All  is  in  motion  ;  rings,  and  plumes,  and  pearls 

Are  shining  ev'rywhere  :  —  some  younger  girls 

Are  gone  by  moonlight  to  the  garden-beds, 

To  gather  fresh,  cool  chaplets  for  then  heads  ;  — 

Gay  creatures !   sweet,  though  mournful,  't  is  to  see 

How  each  prefers  a  garland  from  that  tree 

Which  brings  to  mind  her  childhood's   innocent    day 

And  the  dear  fields  and  friendships  far  away. 

The  maid  of  India,  bless'd  again  to  hold 

In  her  full  lap  the  Champac's  leaves  of  gold, 

Thinks  of  the  time  when,  by  the  Ganges'  flood, 

Her  little  playmates  scatte;  d  many  a  bud 

Upon  her  long  black  hau,  with  glossy  gleam 

Just  dripping  from  the  consecrated  stream  ; 

While  the  young  Arab,  haunted  by  the  smell 

Of  her  own  mountain  flow'rs,  as  by  a  spell, — 

The  sweet  Elcaya,  and  that  courteous  tree 

Which  bows  to  all  who  seek  its  canopy, 

Seas,  cull'd  up  round  her  by  these  magic  scents, 

The  well,  the  camels,  and  her  father's  tents  : 

Sighs  for  the  home  she  left  with  little  pain, 

And  wishes  ev'n  its  sorrows  back  again ! 


Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminated  halls. 
Silent  and  bright,  where  nothing  but  the  falla 


0: - 


^UlScC-A*    I 


LALLA     ROOKH.  47 

Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 

From  many  a  jasper  fount  is  heard  around, 

Young  Azim  roams  bewilder'd,  —  nor  can  guess 

What  means  this  maze  of  light  and  loneliness. 

Here,  the  way  leads,  o'er  tesselated  floors 

Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  long  corridors, 

Where,  ranged  in  cassolets  and  silver  urns, 

Sweet  wood  of  aloe  or  of  sandal  burns  ; 

And  spicy  rods,  such  as  illume  at  night 

The  bow'rs  of  Tibet,  send  forth  odorous  light, 

Like  Peris'  wands,  when  pointing  out  the  road 

For  some  pure  spirit  to  its  blest  abode  :  — 

And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 

Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as  noon 

Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  the  rays 

In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  plays 

High  as  th'  enamell'd  cupola,  which  tow'rs 

All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flow'rs 

And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 

The  sparkling  of  that  fountain's  silv'ry  dew, 

Like  the  wet,  glist'ning  shells,  of  ev'ry  dye, 

That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 


Here  too  he  traces  the  kind  visitings 
Of  woman's  love  in  those  fair,  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate  —  in  bondage    hrowg 
For  their  weak  loveliness  —  is  like  her  own ! 
On  one  side  gleaming  with  a  sudden  grace 
Through  water,  brilliant  as  the  crystal  vase 
In  which  it  undulates,  small  fishes  shine, 
Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine  !  — 
While,  on  the  other,  latticed  lightly  in 
With  odoriferous  woods  of  Comorin, 


J 


48  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Each  brilliant  bird  that  wings  the  air  is  seen;  — 
Gay,  sparkling  loories,  such  as  gleam  between 
The  crimson  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree 
In  tbe  warm  isles  of  India's  sunny  sea : 
Mecca's  blue  sacred  pigeon,  and  the  thrush 
Of  Hindostan,  whose  holy  warblings  gush. 
At  evening,  from  the  tall  pagoda's  top  ;  — 
Those  golden  birds  that,  in  the  spice-time,  drop 
About  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  sweet  food 
Whose  scent  hath  lured  them  o'er  the  summer  £jq& 
And  those  that  under  Araby's  soft  sun 
Build  their  high  nests  of  budding  cinnamon  ; 
In  short  all  rare  and  beauteous  things,  that  fly 
Through  the  pure  element,  here  calmly  lie 
Sleeping  in  light,  like  the  green  birds  that  dwell 
In  Eden's  radiant  fields  of  asphodel ! 

So  on,  through  scenes  past  all  imagining, 
More  like  the  luxuries  of  that  impious  King, 
Whom  Death's  dark  Angel,  with  his  lightning  torch, 
Struck  down  and  blasted  ev'n  in  Pleasure's  porch, 
Than  the  pure  dwelling  of  a  Prophet  sent, 
Arm'd  with  Heaven's  sword  for  man's  enfranchisement — 
Young  Azira  wander'd,  looking  sternly  round, 
His  simple  garb  and  war-boots'  clanking  sound 
But  ill  according  with  the  pomp  and  grace 
And  silent  lull  of  that  voluptuous  place. 

•'  Is  this,  then,"  thought  the  youth,  "  is  tnis  the  wej 
To  free  man's  spirit  from  the  dead'ning  sway 
Of  worldly  sloth,  —  to  teach  him  while  he  lives, 
To  know  no  bliss  but  that  which  virtue  gives, 
And  when  he  dies,  to  leave  his  lofty  name 
A  'ight,  a  landmark  on  the  cliffs  of  fame  ? 


SALLA     R00KH.  45 

It  was  AOt  so  Land  of  the  generous  thought 

And  daring  deed,  thy  godlike  sages  taught ; 

It  was  not  thus,  in  bowers  of  wanton  ease, 

Thy  Freedom  nursed  her  sacred  energies; 

Oh !  not  beneath  th'  enfeebling,  with'ring  glow 

Of  such  dull  lux'ry  did  those  myrtles  grow, 

With  which  she  wreath'd  her  sword,  when  she  would  dare 

Immortal  deeds  ;  but  in  the  bracing  air 

Of  toil,  —  of  temperance,  —  of  that  high,  rare, 

Ethereal  virtue,  which  alone  can  breathe 

Life,  health,  and  lustre  into  Freedom's  wreath. 

Who,  that  surveys  this  span  of  earth  we  press,  — 

This  speck  of  life  in  time's  great  wilderness, 

This  narrow  isthmus  'twixt  two  boundless  seas, 

The  past,  the  future,  two  eternities  !  — 

Would  sully  the  bright  spot,  or  leave  it  baio, 

When  he  might  build  him  a  proud  temple  there, 

A  name,  that  long  shall  hallow  all  its  space, 

And  be  each  purer  soul's  high  resting-place. 

But  no  —  it  cannot  be,  that  one,  whom  God 

Has  sent  to  break  the  wizard  Falsehood's  rod,  — 

A  Prophet  of  the  Truth,  whose  mission  draws 

Its  rights  from  Heaven,  should  thus  profane  its  cause 

With  the  world's  vulgar  pomps ; —  no,  no,  —  I  see 

He  thinks  me  weak  —  this  glare  of  luxury 

Is  but  to  tempt,  to  try  the  eaglet  gaze 

Of  my  young  soul  —  shine  on,  't  will  stand  the  bkze  .  * 

So  thought  the  youth;  —  but,  ev'n  while  he  defied 
This  witching  scene,  he  felt  its  witch'ry  glide 
Through  ev'ry  sense.     The  perfume  breathing  round, 
Like  a  pervading  spirit ;  —  the  still  sound 
Of  falling  waters,  lulling  as  the  song 
Of  Indian  bees  at  sunse+,  when  they  throng 

5 


50  LALLA    ROOKS, 

Around  the  fragrant  Nilica,  and  deep 

In  its  blue  blossoms  hum  themselves  to  sleep ; 

And  music,  too  —  dear  music  !  that  can  touch 

Beyond  all  else  the  soul  that  loves  it  much  — 

Now  heard  far  off,  so  far  as  but  to  seem 

Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream ; 

All  was  too  much  for  him,  too  full  of  bliss, 

The  heart  could  nothing  feel,  that  felt  not  this ; 

Soften'd  he  sunk  upon  a  couch,  and  gave 

His  soul  up  to  sweet  thoughts,  like  wave  on  wave 

Succeeding  in  smooth  seas,  when  storms  are  laid; 

He  thought  of  Zelica,  his  own  dear  maid, 

And  of  the  time  when,  full  of  blissful  sighs. 

They  sat  and  look'd  into  each  other's  eyes, 

Silent  and  happy  —  as  if  God  had  giv'n 

Naught  else  worth  looking  at  on  this  side  heav'n. 


"  Oh,  my  loved  mistress,  thou,  whose  spirit  still 
is  with  me,  round  me,  wander  where  I  will  — 
It  is  for  thee,  for  thee  alone  I  seek 
The  paths  of  glory ;  to  light  up  thy  cheek 
With  warm  approval  —  in  that  gentle  look, 
To  read  my  praise  as  in  an  angel's  book, 
And  tliink  all  toils  rewarded,  when  from  thee 
I  gain  a  smile  worth  immortality ! 
How  shall  I  bear  the  moment,  when  restored 
To  that  young  heart  where  I  alone  am  Lord, 
Though  of  such  bliss  unworthy,  —  since  the  best 
Alone  deserve  to  be  the  happiest :  — 
When  from  those  lips,  unbreath'd  upon  for  years, 
I  shall  again  kiss  off  the  soul-felt  tears, 
\nd  find  those  tears  warm  as  when  they  last  started 
Those  sacred  kisses  pure  as  whin  we  parted. 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


5) 


O  my  own  life .  —  why  should  a  single  day, 
A  moment  keep  me  from  those  arms  away  ?  " 

While  thus  he  thinks,  still  nearer  on  the  hrecze 
Come  those  delicious,  dream-like  harmonics, 
Each  note  of  which  but  adds  new,  downy  links 
To  the  soft  chain  in  Avhich  his  spirit  sinks. 
He  turns  him  tow'rd  the  sound,  and  far  away 
Through  a  long  vista,  sparkling  with  the  play 
Of  countless  lamps,  —  like  the  rich  track  which  Da* 
Leaves  on  the  waters,  when  he  sinks  from  us, 
So  long  the  path,  its  light  so  tremulous  ;  — 
He  sees  a  group  of  female  forms  advance, 
Some  chain'd  together  in  the  mazy  dance 
By  fetters,  forged  in  the  green  sunny  bow'rs, 
As  they  were  captives  to  the  King  of  Flow'rs ; 
z.nd  some  disporting  round,  unlink'd  and  free, 
Who  seem'd  to  mock  their  sister's  slavery  ; 
And  round  and  round  them  still,  in  wheeling  flight 
Went,  like  gay  moths  about  a  lamp  at  night ; 
While  others  waked,  as  gracefully  along 
Their  feet  kept  time,  the  very  soul  of  song 
From  psaltery,  pipe,  and  lutes  of  heav'nly  thrU, 
Or  their  own  youthful  voices,  heav'nlier  still. 
And  now  they  come,  now  pass  before  his  eye, 
Forms  such  as  Nature  moulds,  when  she  would  vie 
With  Fs  icy's  pencil,  and  give  birth  to  things 
Lovely  beyond  its  fairest  picturings. 
A-while  they  dance  before  him,  then  divide, 
Breaking,  like  rosy  clouds  at  even-tide 
Around  the  rich  pavilion  of  the  sun, — 
Till  silently  dispersing,  one  by  one, 
Through  many  a  path  that  from  the  chamber  leada 
To  gardens,  terraces,  and  moonlight  meads, 


53  LALLA    ROOKB 

Their  distant  laughter  comes  upon  the  wind. 

And  but  one  trembling  nymph  remains  behind  — 

Beck'ning  them  back  in  vain,  for  they  are  gone, 

And  she  is  left  in  all  that  light  alone ; 

No  veil  to  curtain  o'er  her  beauteous  brow, 

In  her  young  bashfulness  more  beauteous  now ; 

But  a  light  golden  chain-work  round  her  hair, 

Such  as  the  maids  of  Yedz  and  Shiras  wear, 

From  which,  on  either  side,  gracefully  hung 

A  golden  amulet,  in  th'  Arab  tongue, 

Engraven  o'er  with  some  immortal  line 

From  Holy  Writ,  or  bard  scarce  less  divine ; 

While  her  left  hand,  as  shrinkingly  she  stood, 

Held  a  small  lute  of  gold  and  sandal-wood, 

Which,  once  or  twice,  she  touch'd  with  hurried  strain, 

Then  took  her  trembling  ringers  off  again. 

But  when  at  length  a  timid  glance  she  stole 

At  Azim,  the  sweet  gravity  of  soul 

She  saw  through  all  his  features  calm'd  her  fear 

And,  like  a  half-tamed  antelope,  more  near, 

Though  shrinking  still. she  came  ;  —  then  sat  he:  down 

Upon  a  musnud's  edge,  and,  bolder  grown, 

In  the  pathetic  mode  of  Isfahan, 

Touch'd  a  preluding  strain,  and  thus  began :  — 

There 's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day  long ; 

la  tne  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a  sweet  dream; 
To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget, 
But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 

I  think  —  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet? 
Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemoer  ? 


LALLA     ROOKH.  53 

No,  the  roses  soon  wither'd  that  hung  o'er  tlie  wave, 
But  some  blossoms  were  gatherM,  while  freshly  they 
shone, 

And  a  dew  was  distill'd  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer,  when  summer  was  gene. 

1*1115  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year ; 

Thus  bright-to  my  soul,  as  't  was  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer ! 

"  Poor  maiden ! "  thought  the  youth,  "  if  thou  wert  sen 
With  thy  soft  lute  and  beauty's  blandisliment, 
To  wake  unholy  wishes  in  this  heart, 
Or  tempt  its  troth,  thou  little  know'st  the  art 
For  though  thy  lip  should  sweetly  counsel  wrong, 
Those  vestal  eyes  would  disavow  its  song. 
But  thou  hast  breathed  sucli  purity,  thy  lay 
Returns  so  fondly  to  youth's  virtuous  i 
And  leads  thy  soul  —  if  e'er  it  wander'd  thence  — 
So  gently  back  to  its  first  innocence, 
That  I  would  sooner  stop  the  unchain'd  dove, 
When  swift  returning  to  its  home  of  love, 
And  round  its  snowy  wings  new  fetters  twine, 
Than  turn  from  virtue  one  pure  wish  of  tliine ! " 

Scarce  had  this  feeling  pass'd,  when,  sparklingthrcL'gfc 
The  gently  open'd  curtains  of  light  blue 
That  veil'd  the  breezy  casement,  countless  eyes, 
Peeping  like  stars  through  the  bine  ev'ning  skie3, 
Look'd  laughing  in,  as  if  to  mock  the  pair 
That  sat  so  still  and  melancholy  there :  — 
And  now  the  curtains  fly  apart,  and  in 
From  the  cool  air,  mid  show'-s  of  jessamine 


£4  LAIXA     ROOKH. 

Which  those  without  fling  after  them  in  play, 

Two  lightsome  maidens  spring,  —  lightsome  as  the} 

Who  live  in  th'  air  on  odors,  —  and  around 

The  bright  saloon,  scarce  conscious  of  the  ground, 

Chase  one  another,  in  a  varying  dance 

Of  mirth  and  languor,  coyness  and  advance. 

Too  eloquently  like  love's  warm  pursuit :  — 

While  she,  who  sung  so  gently  to  the  lute 

Her  dream  or  nome,  steals  timidly  away, 

Shrinking  as  violet3  do  in  summer's  ray,  — 

But  takes  with  her  from  Azim's  heart  that  sign 

We  sometimes  give  to  forms  that  pass  us  by 

In  the  world's  crowd,  too  lovely  to  remain, 

Creatures  of  light  we  never  see  again ! 


Around  the  white  necks  of  the  nymphs  who  danced 
Hung  carcanets  of  orient  gems,  that  glanced 
More  brilliant  than  the  sea-glass  glitt'ring  o'er 
The  hills  of  crystal  on  the  Caspian  shore  ; 
While  from  their  long,  dark  tresses,  in  a  fall 
Of  curls  descending,  bells  as  musical 
As  those  that,  on  the  golden-shafted  trees 
Of  Eden,  shake  in  the  eternal  breeze, 
Rumr  round  their  steps,  at  ev'ry  bound  more  sweet, 
As  't  were  th'  ecstatic  language  of  their  feet 
At  length  the  chase  was  o'er,  and  they  stood  wreath'd 
Within  each  other's  arms ;  while  soft  there  breathed 
Through  the  cool  casement,  mingled  with  the  sighs 
Of  moonlight  flow'rs,  music  that  seem'd  to  rise 
From  some  still  lake,  so  liquidly  it  rose  ; 
And,  as  it  swell'd  again  at  each  faint  close, 
The  ear  could  track  through  all  that  maze  of  chorda 
And  young,  sweet  voices,  these  impassion'd  words : 


iALLA     ROOKH.  &3 

A  Spirit  there  is,  -whose  fragrant  sigh 
Is  burning  now  through  earth  and  air  ; 

Where  cheeks  are  blushing,  the  Spirit  is  nigh, 
Where  lips  are  meeting,  the  Spirit  is  there  . 

His  breath  is  the  soul  of  flow'rs  like  these, 
And  his  floating  eyes  —  oh!  they  resemble 

Blua  water-lilies,  when  the  breeze 
Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble. 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  kindling  pow'r! 

Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

Am  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this 

By  the  fair  and  brave 

Who  blushing  unite, 
Like  the  sun  and  wave 

When  they  meet  at  night ; 

By  the  tear  that  shows 

When  passion  is  nigh, 
As  the  rain-drop  flows 

From  the  heat  of  the  sky ; 

By  the  first  love-beat 

Of  the  youthful  heart, 
By  the  bliss  to  meet, 

And  the  pain  to  part ; 

By  all  that  thou  hast 

To  mortals  given, 
Which  —  oh,  could  it  last, 

This  earth  were  heaven' 


5G  LALLA     ROOEH. 

We  call  thet  hither,  entrancing  Power . 

Spirit  of  Love  !  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  aa  tins 


Impatient  of  a  scene,  whose  lux'ries  stole, 
Bpite  of  himself,  too  deep  into  his  soul, 
And  where,  midst  all  that  the  young  heart  loves  moat 
Flow'rs,  music,  smiles,  to  yield  was  to  be  lost, 
The  youth  had  started  up,  and  turn'd  away 
From  the  light  nymphs,  and  their  luxurious  lay, 
To  muse  upon  the  pictures  that  hung  round,  — 
Bright  images,  that  spoke  without  a  sound, 
And  views,  like  vistas  into  fairy  ground. 
But  here  again  new  spells  came  o'er  his  sense  ;  -  - 
All  that  the  pencil's  mute  omnipotence 
Could  call  up  into  life,  of  soft  and  fair, 
Of  fond  and  passionate,  was  glowing  there  ; 
Nor  yet  too  warm,  but  touch'd  with  that  fine  art 
Which  paints  of  pleasure  but  the  purer  part ; 
Which  knows  ev'n  Beauty  when  half-veil'd  is  best,  — 
Like  her  own  radiant  planet  of  the  west, 
Whose  orb  when  half  retired  looks  loveliest. 
Tliere  hung  the  history  of  the  Genii-King, 
Traced  through  each  gay,  voluptuous  wandering 
With  her  from  Saba's  bowers,  in  whose  bright  eye* 
He  read  that  to  be  blest  is  to  be  wise :  — 
litre  fond  Zuleika  woos  with  open  arms 
The  Hebrew  boy,  who  flies  from  her  young  charms, 
Yet,  flying,  turns  to  gaze,  and,  half  undone, 
Wishes  that  Heav'n  and  sh  i  could  both  be  won  ; 
And  here  Mohammed,  born  for  love  and  guile, 
Forgets  the  Koran  in  his  Mary's  smile ;  — 


LA.LL^.    ROOKH.  57 

Then  beckons  some  kind  angel  from  above 
With  a  new  text  to  consecrate  their  love. 

With  rapid  step,  yet  pleased  and  ling'ring  eye, 
Did  the  youth  pass  these  pictured  stories  by, 
And  hasten'd  to  a  casement,  where  the  light 
Of  the  calm  moon  came  in,  and  freshly  bright 
The  fields  without  were  seen,  sleeping  as  still 
As  if  no  life  remain'd  in  breeze  or  rill. 
Here  paused  he,  while  the  music,  now  less  near 
Breathed  with  a  holier  language  on  his  ear, 
As  though  the  distance,  and  that  heav'nly  ray 
Through  which  the  sounds  came  floating,  took  away 
All  that  had  been  too  earthly  in  the  lay. 

Oh  !  could  he  listen  to  such  sounds  unmoved, 
/i.nd  by  that  light  —  nor  dream  of  her  he  loved  ? 
Dream  on,  unconscious  boy !  while  yet  thou  may'st 
'T  is  the  last  bliss  thy  soul  shall  ever  taste. 
Clasp  yet  awnne  her  image  to  thy  heart, 
Ere  all  the  light,  that  made  it  dear,  depart 
Think  of  her  smiles  as  when  thou  saw'st  them  last. 
Clear,  beautiful,  by  naught  of  earth  o'ercast ; 
Recall  her  tears,  to  thee  at  parting  giv'n, 
Pure  as  they  weep,  if  angels  weep,  in  Heav'n. 
Think,  in  her  own  still  bower  she  waits  thee  now, 
With  the  same  glow  of  heart  and  bloom  of  brow 
Yet  shrined  in  solitude  —  thine  all,  thine  only, 
Like  the  one  star  above  thee,  bright  and  lone'y. 
Oh !  that  a  dream  so  sweet,  so  long  enjoy'd, 
Should  be  so  sadly,  cruelly  destroy'd! 

The  song  is  hush'd,  the  laughing  nymphs  are  flown, 
And  he  is  left,  musing  of  bliss,  alone;  — 


58  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Alone  ?  —  no,  not  alone  —  that  heavy  sign, 
That  sob  of  grief,  which  broke  from  some  one  nigh  - 
Whose  could  it  be  ?  —  alas  !  is  misery  found 
Here,  even  here,  on  this  enchanted  ground  ? 
lie  turns,  and  sees  a  female  form,  close  veil'd, 
Leaning,  as  if  both  heart  and  strength  had  fail'd, 
Against  a  pillar  nea> ;  —  not  glitt'ring  o'er 
With  gems  and  wreaths,  such  as  the  othsrs  were 
But  in  that  deep-blue,  melancholy  dress, 
Bokhara's  maidens  wear  in  mindfulness 
Of  friends  or  kindred,  dead  or  far  away  ;  — 
And  such  as  Zelica  had  on  that  day 
He  left  her  —  when,  with  heart  too  full  to  speak, 
He  took  away  her  last  warm  tears  upon  his  cheek. 


A  strange  emotion  stirs  within  him,  —  more 
Than  mere  compassion  ever  waked  before ; 
Unconsciously  he  opes  his  arms,  while  she 
Springs  forward,  as  witli  life's  last  energy, 
But,  swooning  in  that  one  convulsive  bound, 
Sinks,  ere  she  reach  his  arms,  upon  the  ground ,  — 
Her  veil  falls  off — her  faint  hands  clasp  his  kiv»<*3 
'T  is  she  herself! — 'ti3  Zelica  he  sees! 
But.  ah,  so  pale,  so  changed  —  none  but  a  lover 
Could  in  that  wreck  of  beauty's  shrine  discover 
The  once-adored  divinity  —  ev'n  lie 
Stood  for  some  moments  mute-,  and  doubtingly 
Put  back  the  ringlets  from  her  brow,  and  gazed 
Upon  those  lids,  where  once  such  lustre  blazed, 
Ere  he  could  think  she  was  indeed  bis  own, 
Own  darling  maid,  whom  he  so  long  had  knowo 
In  joy  and  sorrow,  beautiful  in  both  ; 
Who,  ev'n  when  grief  was  heaviest — when  btlk 


LALLA    R00KH.  30 

He  left  her  for  the  wars  —  in  that  worst  hour 
Sat  in  her  sorrow  like  the  sweet  night-flow'r, 
When  darkness  brings  its  weeping  glories  out 
And  spreads'its  sighs  like  frankincense  about. 

''Look  up,  my  Zelica  —  one  moment  show 
Those,  gentle  eyes  to  me,  that  I  may  know 
Thy  life,  thy  loveliness  is  not  all  gone, 
But  there,  at  least,  shines  as  it  ever  shone. 
Come,  look  upon  ti*y  Azim  —  one  dear  glance, 
Like  those  of  old,  were  heav'n  !  whatever  chance 
Hath  brought  thee  here,  oh,  't  was  a  blessed  one  ! 
There — my  loved  lips — they  move — that  kiss  hath  run 
Like  the  first  shoot  of  life  through  every  vein, 
And  now  I  clasp  her,  mine,  all  mine  again. 
Oh  the  delight  —  now,  in  this  very  hour, 
When  had  the  whole  rich  world  been  in  my  pc  w'r, 
I  should  have  singled  out  thee,  only  thee, 
From  the  whole  world's  collected  treasury  — 
To  have  thee  here  —  to  hang  thus  fondly  o'er 
My  own,  best,  purest  Zelica  once  more  ! " 


It  was  indeed  the  touch  of  those  fond  lips 
Upon  her  eyes  that  chased  their  short  eclipse, 
And,  gradual  as  the  snow,  at  Heaven's  breath, 
Melts  off  and  shows  the  azure  flow'rs  beneath, 
Her  lids  unclosed,  and  the  bright  eyes  were  seen 
Gazing  on  his  —  not,  as  they  late  had  been, 
Quick,  restless,  wild,  but  mournfully  serene  ; 
As  if  to  lie,  ev'n  for  that  tranced  minute, 
So  near  his  heart,  had  consolation  in  it ; 
And  thus  to  wake  in  his  beloved  caress 
Took  from  her  soul  one  half  its  wretchedn  3S3. 


60  fcALLA    ROOKH. 

But,  when  she  heard  him  call  her  good  and  pure, 
Oh,  t  was  too  much  —  too  dreadful  to  endure ! 
Shudd'ring  she  broke  away  from  his  embrace, 
And,  hiding  with  both  hands  her  guilty  face, 
Said,  in  a  tone  whose  anguish  would  have  riv'n 
A  heart  of  very  marble,  "  Pure  !  —  oh  Heav'n !    •— 

That  tone  —  those  looks  so  changed  —  the  withering 
blight, 
That  sin  and  sorrow  leave  where'er  they  light ; 
The  dead  despondency  of  those  sunk  eyes, 
Where  once,  had  he  thus  met  her  by  surprise, 
He  would  have  seen  himself,  too  happy  boy, 
Reflected  in  a  thousand  lights  of  joy ; 
And  then  the  place,  —  that  bright,  unholy  place, 
Where  vice  lay  hid  beneath  each  winning  grace 
And  charm  of  lux'ry,  as  the  viper  weaves 
Its  wily  cov'ring  of  sweet  balsam  leaves,  — 
All  struck  upon  his  heart,  sudden  and  cold 
As  dea^i  itself;  —  it  needs  not  to  be  told  — 
No,  no  —  he  sees  it  all,  plain  as  the  brand 
Of  burning  shame  can  mark  —  whate'er  the  hand 
That  could  from  Heav'n  and  him  such  brightness  sever 
'T  is  done  —  to  Heav'n  and  him  she  "s  lost  for  ever ! 
It  was  a  dreadful  moment ;  not  the  tears, 
The  ling'ring  lasting  misery  of  years 
Could  match  that  minute's  anguish  —  all  the  worst 
Of  sorrow's  elements  in  that  dark  burst 
Broke  o'er  his  soul,  and,  with  one  crash  of  fate, 
Laid  the  whole  hopes  of  his  life  desolate. 

"  Oh  !  curse  me  not,"  she  cried,  as  wild  ne  toss'd 
His  desp'rate  hand  tow'rds  Heav'n  —  "though  I  am 
lost, 


tALLA    ROOKH.  6"J 

Think  not  that  guilt,  that  falsehood  made  me  fall, 

No,  no  —  t  was  grief,  't  was  madness  did  it  all ! 

Nay,  doubt  me  not  —  though  all  thy  love  hath  ceased 

I  know  it  hath  —  yet,  yet  believe,  at  least, 

That  every  spark  of  reason's  light  must  be 

Quench'd  in  tins  brain,  ere  I  could  stray  from  thee. 

They  told  me  thou  wert  dead  —  Avhy,  Aum,  why 

Did  we  not  both  of  us  that  instant  die 

When  we  were  parted  ?  oh !  couldst  thou  but  know 

With  what  a  deep  devotedness  of  woe 

I  wept  thy  absence  —  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Thinking  of  thee,  still  thee,  till  thought  grew  pain, 

And  mem'ry,  like  a  drop,  that  night  and  day, 

Falls  cold  and  ceaseless,  wore  my  heart  away. 

Didst  thou  but  know  how  pale  I  sat  at  home, 

My  eyes  still  turn'd  the  way  thou  wert  to  come, 

And,  all  the  long,  long  night  of  hope  and  fear, 

Thy  voice  and  step  still  sounding  in  my  ear  — 

Oh  God  !  thou  wouldst  not  wonder  that,  at  last, 

When  every  hope  was  all  at  once  o'ercast, 

When  I  heard  frightful  voices  round  me  say 

Jhim  is  dead!  —  this  wretched  brain  gave  way, 

And  I  became  a  wreck,  at  random  driven, 

Without  one  glimpse  of  reason  or  of  Heav'n  — 

All  wild  —  and  even  this  quenchless  love  within 

Turn'd  to  foul  fires  to  light  me  into  sin  !  — 

Thou  pitiest  me  —  I  knew  thou  wouldst — that  8jtJ 

Hath  naught  beneath  it  half  so  lorn  as  I. 

The  fiend,  who  lured  me  hither  —  hist !  come  near, 

Or  thou  too,  thou  art  lost,  if  he  should  hear  — 

Told  me  such  things  —  oh !  with  such  de-'lish  art, 

As  would  have  ruin'd  ev'n  a  holier  heart  — 

Of  thee  and  of  that  ever-radiant  sphere, 

Where  bless' d  at  length,  if  I  but  served  Mm  here, 


i  LALLA    ROOKH. 

I  shou.d  for  ever  live  in  thy  dear  sight, 
And  drink  from  those  pure  eyes  eternal  light 
Think,  think  how  lost,  how  madden'd  I  must  be, 
To  hope  that  guilt  could  lead  to  God  or  thee ! 
Thou  weep'st  for  me  —  do  weep  —  oh,  that  I  durst 
Kiss  off  that  tear !  but,  no  —  these  lips  are  cursed, 
They  must  not  touch  thee;  —  one  divine  caress, 
One  blessed  moment  of  forgetfulness 
I  've  had  within  those  arms,  and  that  shall  lie, 
Shrined  in  my  soul's  deep  mem'ry  till  I  die  ; 
The  last  of  joy's  last  relics  here  below, 
The  one  sweet  drop,  in  all  this  waste  of  woe, 
My  heart  has  treasured  from  affection's  spring, 
To  soothe  and  cool  its  deadly  withering ! 
But  thou  —  yes,  thou  must  go  —  for  ever  go  ; 
This  place  is  not  for  thee  —  for  thee  !  oh  no  : 
Did  I  but  tell  thee  half,  thy  tortured  brain 
Would  burn  like  mine,  and  mine  go  wild  again ! 
Enough,  that  Guilt  reigns  here,  that  hearts,  once  good, 
Now  tainted,  chill'd,  and  broken,  are  his  food.  — 
Enough,  that  we  are  parted  —  that  there  rolls 
A  flood  of  headlong  fate  between  our  souls, 
Whose  darkness  severs  me  as  wide  from  thee 
As  hell  from  heav'n,  to  all  eternity ! " 


"  Zelica,  Zelica !  "  the  youth  exclaim'd, 
Jn  all  the  tortures  of  a  mind  inflamed 
Almost  to  madness  —  "  by  that  sacred  Heav'n, 
Where  yet,  if  pray'rs  can  move,  thou  'It  be  forgiv': 
As  thou  art  here  —  here,  in  this  writhing  heart, 
All  sinful,  wild,  and  ruin'd  as  thou  art  I 
By  the  remembrance  of  our  once  pure  love, 
Which,  like  a  churchyard  light,  still  burns  above 


LALLA    IIOOKH.  65 

The  grave  of  our  lost  souls  —  which  gu Jt  in  thee 
Cannot  extinguish,  nor  despair  in  me  ! 
1  do  conjure,  implore  thee  to  fly  hence  — 
If  thou  hast  yet  one  spark  of  innocence, 
Fly  with  me  from  this  place  "  — 

"  With  thee  .  oh  bliss  ! 
T  is  worth  whole  years  ot  torment  to  hear  this. 
What !  take  the  lost  one  with  thee  ?  —  let  her  rove 
By  thy  dear  side,  as  in  those  days  of  love, 
When  we  were  both  so  happy,  both  so  pure  — 
Too  heav'nly  dream !  if  there 's  on  earth  a  cure 
For  the  sunk  heart,  't  is  this  —  day  after  day 
To  be  the  bless'd  companion  of  thy  way  ; 
To  hear  thy  angel  eloquence  —  to  see 
Those  virtuous  eyes  for  ever  turn'd  on  me ; 
And,  in  their  light  rechasten'd  silently, 
Like  the  stain'd  web  that  whitens  in  the  sun, 
Grow  pure  by  being  purely  shone  upon  ! 
And  thou  wilt  pray  for  me  —  I  know  thou  wilt  - 
At  the  dim  vesper  hour,  when  thoughts  of  gum. 
Come  heaviest  o'er  the  heart,  thou  'It  lift  thine  eyt 
Full  of  sweet  tears,  unto  the  dark'ning  skies, 
And  plead  for  me  with  Heav'n,  till  I  can  dare 
To  fix  roy  own  weak,  sinful  glances  there ; 
Till  the  good  angels,  when  they  see  me  cling 
For  ever  near  thee,  pale  and  sorrowing, 
Shall,  for  thy  sake,  pronounce  my  soul  forgiv'n, 
And  bid  thee  take  thy  weeping  slave  tc  Heav'n ! 
Oh  yes,  I  '11  fly  with  thee " 

Scarce  had  she  said 
These  breathless  words,  when  a  voice  deep  and  dread 
Ab  that  of  Monker,  waking  up  the  dead 


64  LALLA    ROOKH. 

From  their  first  sleep  —  so  startling  't  was  to  both  — 

Rung  through  the  casement  near,  "  Thy  oath !  thy  oath  !  * 

Oh  Heav'n,  the  ghastliness  of  that  Maid's  look  1  — 

"  -T  is  he,"  faintly  she  cried,  while  terror  shook 

Her  inmost  core,  nor  durst  she  lift  her  eyes, 

Though  through  the  casement,  now.  naught  but  the  skiefl 

And  moonlight  fields  were  seen,  calm  as  before  — 

"  'T  is  he,  and  I  am  his  —  all,  all  is  o'er  — 

Go  —  fly  this  instant,  or  thou  'rt  ruin'd  too  — 

My  oath,  my  oath,  oh  God  !  't  is  all  too  true, 

True  as  the  worm  in  this  cold  heart  it  is  — 

1  am  Mokanna's  bride  —  his,  Azim,  his  — 

The  Dead  stood  round  us,  while  I  spoke  that  vow, 

Their  blue  lips  echo'd  it  —  I  hear  them  now  ! 

Their  eyes  glared  on  me,  while  I  pledged  that  bowls 

T  was  burning  blood  —  I  feel  it  in  my  soul ! 

And  the  Veil'd  Bridegroom  —  hist !  I  've  seen  to-night 

What  angels  know  not  of — so  foul  a  sight, 

So  horrible  —  oh  !  never  may'st  thou  see 

What  there  lies  hid  from  all  but  hell  and  me  ! 

But  I  must  hence  —  off,  off —  I  am  not  thine, 

Nor  Heav'n's,  nor  Love's,  nor  aught  that  is  divine  — 

Hold  me  not  —  ha  !  think'st  thou  the  fiends  that  sever 

Hearts,  cannot  sunder  hands?  —  thus  then-  for  ever!" 

With  all  that  strength,  which  madness  lends  the  weak 
She  flung  away  his  arm ;  and,  with  a  shriek, 
Whose  sound,  though  he  should  linger  out  more  yearn 
Than  wretch  e'er  told,  can  never  leave  Ills  ears  — 
Flew  up  through  that  long  avenue  of  light, 
Fleetly  as  some  dark,  ominous  bird  of  night, 
Across  the  sun,  and  soon  was  out  of  sight! 


65 


Lalla  Kookh  could  think  of  nothing  all  day  bul 
Ithe  misery  of  these  two  young  lovers.  Her  gayety 
was  gone,  and  she  looked  pensively  even  upon  Fad- 
ladcen.  She  felt,  too,  without  knowing  why,  a  sort  of 
uneasy  pleasure  in  imagining  that  Azim  must  have  been 
just  such  a  youth  as  Feramorz ;  just  as  worthy  to  enjoy 
all  the  blessings,  without  any  of  the  pangs,  of  that 
illusive  passion,  which  too  often,  like  the  sunny  applea 
of  Istkahar,  is  all  sweetness  on  one  side,  and  all  bitter- 
ness on  the  other. 

As  they  passed  along  a  sequestered  river  after  sun- 
set, they  saw  a  young  Hindoo  girl  upon  the  bank,  whose 
employment  seemed  to  them  so  strange,  that  they 
stopped  their  palankeens  to  observe  her.  She  had 
lighted  a  small  lamp,  filled  with  oil  of  cocoa,  and  placing 
it  in  an  earthen  dish,  adorned  with  a  wreath  of  flowers, 
had  committed  it  with  a  trembling  hand  to  the  stream  ; 
and  was  now  anxiously  watching  its  progress  down  the 
current,  heedless  of  the  gay  cavalcade  which  had  drawn 
up  beside  her.  Lalla  Rookh  was  all  curiosity;  —  when 
one  of  her  attendants,  who  had  lived  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Ganges,  (where  this  ceremony  is  so  frequent, 
that  often,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  river  is  seen 
glittering  'all  over  with  lights,  like  the  Oton-Tala,  or 
Sea  of  Stars,)  informed  the  Princess  that  it  was  the 
usual  way  in  which  the  friends  of  those  who  had  gone 
on  dange-ous  voyages  offered  up  vows  for  their  safe 
return.     If  the  lamp  sunk  immediately,  the  omen  waa 

disastrous  ;  but  if  it  went  shining  down  the  stream,  and 

6* 


G6  Lu&IXA     KOOEH. 

continued  to  burn  till  entirely  out  of  sight,  the  return 
of  the  belovei  object  was  considered  as  certain. 

Lalla  Rookh,  as  they  moved  on,  more  than  once 
looked  back,  to  observe  how  the  young  Hindoo's  lamp 
proceeded ;  and  while  she  saw  with  pleasure  that  it 
was  still  unextinguished,  she  could  not  help  fearing 
that  all  the  hopes  of  this  life  were  no  better  than  that 
feeble  light  upon  the  river.  The  remainder  of  the 
journey  was  passed  in  silence.  She  now,  for  the  first 
time,  felt  that  shade  of  melancholy  which  comes  over 
the  youthful  maiden's  heart,  as  sweet  and  transient  as 
her  own  breath  upon  a  mirror  ;  nor  was  it  till  she  heard 
the  lute  of  Feramorz,  touched  lightly  at  the  door  of  her 
pavilion,  that  she  waked  from  the  revery  in  which  she 
had  been  wandering.  Instantly  her  eyes  were  lighted 
up  with  pleasure ;  and,  after  a  few  unheard  remarks 
from  Fadladeen  upon  the  indecorum  of  a  poet  seating 
himself  in  presence  of  a  Princess,  every  thing  waa 
arranged  as  on  the  preceding  evening,  and  all  listened 
trith  eagerness,  while  the  story  was  thus  continued  •   - 


67 


Whose  are  the  gilded  tents  that  crowd  the  wej, 
Where  all  was  waste  and  silent  yesterday  ? 
This  city  of  War  which,  in  a  few  short  hours, 
Hath  sprung  up  here,  as  if  the  magic  powers 
Of  Him  who,  in  the  twinkling  of  a  star, 
Built  the  high  pillar'd  halls  of  Chilminar, 
Had  conjured  up,  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
This  world  of  tents,  and  domes,  ana  sun-bright  armorp 
Princely  pavilions,  screen'd  by  many  a  fold 
Of  crimson  cloth,  and  toppd  witn  balis  or  gold :  — 
Steeds,  with  their  housings  of  rich  silver  spun, 
Their  chains  and  poitrels  glitt'ring  in  the  sun; 
And  camels,  tufted  o'er  with  Yemen's  shells, 
Shaking  in  every  breeze  their  light-toned  bells ! 


But  yester-eve,  so  motionless  around, 
So  mute  was  this  wide  plain,  that  not  a  sound 
But  the  far  torrent,  or  the  locust  bird 
Hunting  among  the  thickets,  could  be  heard  ;  — 
Yet  hark !  what  discords  now,  of  ev'ry  kind, 
Shouts,  laughs,  and  screams  are  revelling  in  the  wind 
The  neigh  of  cavalry  ;  —  the  tinkling  throngs 
Of  laden  camels  and  their  drivers'  songs  ;  — 
Ringing  of  arms,  and  flapping  in  the  breeze 
Of  streamers  from  ten  thousand  canopies ;  — 
War-music,  bursting  out  from  time  to  time, 
With  gong  and  tymbalon's  tremendous  chime ;  — 
Or,  in  the  pause,  when  harsher  sounds  are  mute, 
The  mellow  breathings  of  some  horn  or  flute, 


t)8  LALLA    KOOKH. 

That  far  off.  broken  by  the  eagle  note 
Of  th'  Abyssinian  trumpet,  swell  and  float 

Who  leads  this  mighty  army  ?  -   ask  ye  "  who  ?  * 
And  mark  ye  not  those  banners  of  dark  hue, 
The  Night  and  Shadow,  over  yonder  tent  ?  — 
It  is  the  Caliph's  glorious  armament. 
Roused  in  his  Palace  by  the  dread  alarms, 
That  hourly  came,  of  the  false  Prophet's  arms, 
And  of  his  host  of  infidels,  who  hurl'd 
Defiance  fierce  at  Islam  and  the  world,  — 
Though  worn  with  Grecian  warfare,  and  behind 
The  veils  of  his  bright  Palace  cairn  reclined, 
Yet  brook'd  he  not  such  blasphemy  should  stain, 
Thus  unrevenged,  the  evening  of  his  reign ; 
But,  having  sworn  upon  the  Holy  Grave 
To  conquer  or  to  perish,  once  more  gave 
His  shadowy  banners  proudly  to  the  breeze. 
And  with  an  army,  nursed  in  victories, 
Here  stands  to  crush  the  rebels  that  o'errun 
His  blest  and  beauteous  Province  of  the  Sun. 

Ne'er  did  the  march  of  Mahadi  display 
Such  pomp  before  ;  —  nor  ev'n  when  on  his  way 
To  Mecca's  Temple,  when  both  land  and  sea 
Were  spoil'd  to  feed  the  Pilgrim's  luxury ; 
When  round  him,  mid  the  burning  sands,  he  saw 
Fruits  of  the  North  in  icy  freshness  thaw, 
And  cool'd  his  thirsty  lip,  beneath  tne  glow 
Of  Mecca's  sun,  with  urns  of  Persian  snows  — 
Nor  e'er  did  armament  more  grand  than  that 
Pour  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  Caliphat. 
First,  in  the  van,  the  People  of  the  Rock, 
On  their  light  mountain  steeds,  of  royal  stock  • 


LALLA    ROOKH.  69 

Then,  chieftains  of  Damascus,  proud  to  see 
The  flashing  ef  their  swords'  ricli  marquetry  ;  — 
Men,  from  the  regions  near  the  Volga's  mouth, 
Mix'd  with  the  rude,  black  archers  of  the  South 
And  Indian  lancers,  in  white  turban'd  ranks, 
From  the  far  Sinde,  or  Attack's  sacred  banks, 
With  dusky  legions  from  the  Land  of  Myrrh, 
And  many  a  mace-arm'd  Moor  and  Mid-sea  islandea 

Nor  less  in  number,  though  more  new  and  rude 
Cn  warfare's  school,  was  the  vast  multitude 
That,  fired  by  zeal,  or  by  oppression  wrong'd, 
Round  the  white  standard  of  th'  imposter  throng'd. 
Beside  his  thousands  of  Believers  —  blind, 
Burning  and  headlong  as  the  Samiel  wind  — 
Many  who  felt,  and  more  who  fear'd  to  feel 
The  bloody  Islamite's  converting  steel, 
Flock'd  to  his  banner ;  —  Chiefs  of  th'  Uzbek  race, 
Waving  their  heron  crest  with  martial  grace; 
Turkomans,  countless  as  their  flocks,  led  forth 
From  til'  aromatic  pastures  of  the  North ; 
W  ild  warriors  of  the  turquoise  hills,  —  and  those 
Who  dwell  beyond  the  everlasting  snows 
Of  Hindoo  Kosh,  in  stormy  freedom  bred, 
Their  fort  the  rock,  their  camp  the  torrent's  bed. 
But  none,  of  all  who  own'd  the  Chief's  command, 
Rush'd  to  that  battle-field  with  bolder  hand, 
Or  sterner  hate,  than  Iran's  outlaw'd  men, 
Her  Worshippers  of  Fire  —  ail  panting  then 
For  vengeance  on  th'  accursed  Saracen ; 
Vengeance  at  last  for  their  dear  country  spurn'd, 
Her  throne  usurp'd,  and  her  bright  shrines  o'erturn'd 
From  Yezd's  eternal  Mansion  of  the  Fire, 
Where  aged  saints  in  dreams  of  Heav'n  expire : 


£0  T.ATT.A      ROOKH. 

From  Badku,  and  those  fountains  of  blue  flams 
That  burn  into  the  Caspian,  fierce  they  came, 
Careless  for  what  or  whom  the  blow  was  sped, 
So  vengeance  triumph' d,  and  their  tyrants  bled. 

Such  was  the  wild  and  miscellaneous  host, 
That  high  in  air  their  motley  banners  toss'd 
Around  the  Prophet-Chief —  all  eyes  still  bent 
Upon  that  glittering  Veil,  where'er  it  went, 
That  beacon  through  the  battle's  stormy  flood, 
That  rainbow  of  the  field,  whose  showers  were  blood 

Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conflict  set, 
And  risen  again,  and  found  them  grappling  yet ; 
While  streams  of  carnage  in  his  noontide  blaze, 
Smoke  up  to  Heav'n  —  hot  as  that  crimson  haze, 
By  which  the  prostrate  Caravan  is  awed, 
In  the  red  Desert,  when  the  wind's  abroad. 
"  On,  Swords  of  God  ! "  the  panting  Caliph  calls,  — 
"  Thrones  for  the  living — Heav'n  for  him  who  falls ! "  — 
"  On,  brave  avengers,  on,"  Mokanna  cries, 
"  And  Eblis  blast  the  recreant  slave  that  flies  !  " 
Now  comes  the  brunt,  the  crisis  of  the  day  — 
They  clash — they  strive — the  Caliph's  troops  give  way, 
Mokanna's  self  plucks  the  black  Banner  down, 
And  now  the  Orient  World's  Imperial  crown 
Is  just  within  his  grasp  —  when,  hark,  that  shout ! 
Some  hand  hath  check'd  the  flying  Moslem's  rout ; 
And  now  they  turn,  they  rally  —  at  their  head 
A  warrior  (like  those  angel  youths  who  led, 
In  glorious  panoply  of  Heav'n's  own  mail, 
The  Champions  of  the  Faith  through  Beders  vde,) 
Bold  as  if  gifted  with  ten  thousand  lives, 
Turns  on  the  fierce  pursuer's  blades,  and  drives 


LALLA    ROOKH.  / 

At  once  the  multitudinous  torrent  back  — 
While  hope  and  courage  kindle  in  his  track; 
And,  at  each  step,  his  bloody  falchion  makes 
Terrible  vistas  through  which  vict'ry  breaks  ! 
In  vain  Mokanna,  midst  the  general  flight, 
Stands,  like  the  red  moon,  on  some  stormy  night, 
Among  the  fugitive  clouds  that,  hurryirfg  by, 
Leave  only  her  unshaken  in  the  sky  — 
In  vain  lie  yells  his  desperate  curses  out, 
Deals  death  promiscuously  to  all  about, 
To  foes  that  charge  and  coward  friends  that  fly, 
And  seems  of  all  the  Great  Arch-enemy. 
The  panic  spreads  —  "  A  miracle  ! "  throughout 
The  Moslem  ranks,  "  a  miracle  ! "  they  shout, 
All  gazing  on  that  youth,  whose  coming  seems 
A  light,  a  glory,  such  as  breaks  in  dreams ; 
And  ev'ry  sword,  true  as  o'er  billows  dim 
The  needle  tracks  the  load-star,  following  him ! 

Right  tow'rds  Mokanna  now  he  cleaves  his  pa  h, 
Impatient  cleaves,  as  though  the  bolt  of  wrath 
He  bears  from  Heav'n  withheld  its  awful  burst 
From  weaker  heads,  and  souls  but  half  way  cursed. 
To  break  o'er  Him,  the  mightiest  and  the  worst ! 
But  vain  his  speed  —  though,  in  that  hour  of  blood, 
Had  all  God's  seraphs  round  Mokanna  stood, 
With  swords  of  fire,  ready  like  fate  to  fall, 
Mikanna's  soul  would  have  defied  them  all ; 
Yet  now,  the  rush  of  fugitives,  too  strong 
For  human  force,  hurries  ev'n  Mm,  along ; 
In  vain  he  struggles  'mid  the  wedged  amy 
Of  flying  thousands  —  he  is  borne  away ; 
And  the  sole  joy  his  baffled  spirit  knows, 
In  this  forced  flight,  is  —  murd'ring  as  he  goes ! 


72  I.ALLA    ROOKH. 

As  a  grim  tiger,  whom  the  torrent's  might 
Surprises  ia  some  parch'd  ravine  at  night, 
Tunis,  ev'n  in  drowning,  on  the  wretched  flocks, 
Swept  with  him  in  that  snow-flood  from  the  rocta, 
And,  to  the  last,  devouring  on  his  way, 
Bloodies  the  stream  he  hath  no  power  to  stay. 

"  Alia  ilia  Alia !  "  —  the  glad  shout  renew  — 
"Alia  Akbar!"  — the  Caliph's  in  Merou. 
Hang  out  your  gilded  tapestry  in  the  streets, 
And  light  your  shrines  and  chaunt  your  ziraleets. 
The  Swords  of  God  have  triumph'd  —  on  his  throna 
Your  Caliph  sits,  and  the  veil'd  Chief  hath  flown. 
Who  does  not  envy  that  young  warrior  now, 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Islam  bends  his  brow, 
In  all  the  graceful  gratitude  of  power, 
For  his  tin-one's  safety  in  that  perilous  hour? 
Who  doth  not  wonder,  when,  amidst  th'  acclaim 
Of  thousands,  heralding  to  heaven  his  name  — 
'Mid  all  those  holier  harmonies  of  fame, 
Which  sound  along  the  path  of  virtuous  souls, 
Like  music  round  a  planet  as  it  rolls,  — 
He  turns  away  —  coldly,  as  if  some  gloom 
Hung  o'er  his  heart  no  triumphs  can  illume  ;  — 
Some  sightless  grief,  upon  whose  blasted  gaze 
Though  glory's  light  may  play,  in  vain  it  plays. 
Yes,  wretched  Azim !  thine  is  such  a  grief, 
Beyond  all  hope,  all  terror,  all  relief; 
A  dark,  cold  calm,  which  nothing  now  can  break, 
Or  warm  or  brighten,  —  like  that  Syrian  Lake, 
Upon  whose  surface  morn  and  summer  shed 
Their  smiles  in  vain,  for  all  beneath  is  dead  !  — 
Hearts  there  have  been,  o'er  which  this  weight  of  woe 
Came  by  long  use  of  suff'ring,  tame  and  slow ; 


X.ALLA    ROOKH.  73 

But  tnine,  lost  youth !  was  sudden  —  over  thee 
It  broke  at  once,  when  all  seem'd  ecstacy ; 
When  Hope  look'd  up,  and  saw  the  gloomy  Past 
Melt  into  splendor,  and  Bliss  dawn  at  last  — 
'T  was  then,  ev'n  then,  o'er  joys  so  freshly  blown, 
This  mortal  blight  of  misery  came  down ; 
Ev'n  then,  the  full,  warm  gushings  of  thy  heart 
Were  check'd — like  fount-drops,  frozen  as  they  start— 
And  there,  like  them,  cold,  sunless  relics  hang, 
Each  fix'd  and  chill'd  into  a  lasting  pang. 

One  sole  desire,  one  passion  now  remains 
To  keep  life's  fever  still  within  his  veins, 
Vengeance  !  —  dire  vengeance  on  the  wretch  who 

cast 
O'er  him  and  all  he  loved  that  ruinous  blast. 
For  this,  when  rumors  reached  him  in  his  flight 
Far,  far  away,  after  that  fatal  night,  — 
Humors  of  armies,  thronging  to  th'  attack 
Of  the  Veil'd  Chief,  —  for  this  he  wing'd  him  back, 
Fleet  as  the  vulture  speeds  to  flags  unfurl'd, 
And,  when  all  hope  seem'd  desp'rate,  wildly  hurl'd 
Himself  into  the  scale,  and  saved  a  world. 
For  this  he  still  lives  on,  careless  of  all 
The  wreaths  that  Glory  on  his  path  lets  fall ; 
For  this  alone  exists  —  like  lightning-fire, 
To  speed  one  bolt  of  vengeance,  emd  expire ! 

But  safe  as  yet  that  Spirit  of  Evil  lives ; 
With  a  small  band  of  desp'rate  fugitives, 
The  last  sole  stubborn  fragment,  left  unriv'n, 
Of  the  proud  host  that  late  stood  fronting  Heav'n, 
He  gain'd  Merou  —  breathed  a  short  curse  of  blood 
O'er  his  lost  throne  —  then  pass'd  the  Jihon's  flood, 


7!  LALLA    ROOKH. 

And  gath'ring  all,  whose  madness  of  belief 

Still  saw  a  Saviour  in  their  down-fall'n  Chief, 

Raised  the  white  banner  within  Neksheb's  gates, 

And  there,  untamed,  th'  approaching  conq'ror  waits. 

Of  all  his  Haram,  all  that  busy  hive 

With  music  and  with  sweets  sparkling  alive, 

He  took  but  one,  the  partner  of  his  flight, 

One  —  not  for  love  —  not  for  her  beauty's  light — 

No,  Zehca  stood  withering  'midst  the  gay, 

Wan  as  the  blossom  that  fell  yesterday 

From  tli'  Alma  tree  and  dies,  while  overhead 

To-day's  young  flow'r  is  springing  in  its  stead. 

Oh,  not  for  love  —  the  deepest  Damn'd  must  be 

Touch'd  with  Heaven's  glory,  ere  such  fiends  as  he 

Can  feel  one  glimpse  of  Love's  divinity. 

But  no,  she  is  his  victim  ;  —  there  lie  all 

Her  charms  for  him  —  charms  that  can  never  pall, 

As  long  as  hell  within  his  heart  can  stir, 

Or  one  faint  trace  of  Heaven  is  left  in  her. 

To  work  an  angel's  ruin,  —  to  behold 

As  white  a  page  as  Virtue  e'er  unroll'd 

Blacken,  beneath  his  touch,  into  a  scroll 

Of  damning  sins,  seal'd  with  a  burning  soul  — 

This  is  his  triumph  ;  this  the  joy  accursed, 

That  ranks  him  among  demons  all  but  first: 

This  gives  the  victim,  that  before  him  lies 

Blighted  and  lost,  a  glory  in  his  eyes, 

A  light  like  that  with  which  hell-fire  illumes 

The  ghastly,  writhing  wretch  whom  it  consumes  : 

But  other  tasks  now  wait  him  — tasks  that  need 
All  the  deep  daringness  of  thought  and  deed 
With  which  the  Dives  have  gifted  him  —  for  mark, 
Over  yon  plains,  which  night  had  else  made  dark, 


LAI.LA     ROOKS.  73 

Those  lanterns,  countless  as  the  winged  lights 
That  spangle  India's  fields  on  show'ry  nights. — 
Far  as  their  formidable  gleams  they  shed, 
The  mighty  tents  of  the  beleauguerer  spread, 
Glimm'ring  along  th'  horizon's  dusky  line, 
And  thence  in  nearer  circles,  till  they  shine 
Among  the  founts  and  groves,  o'er  which  the  tofl  n 
In  all  its  arm'd  magnificence  looks  down. 
Yet.  fearless,  from  his  lofty  battlements 
Mokanna  views  that  multitude  of  tents : 

r.iles  to  think  that,  though  entoiled,  beset, 
Not  less  than  myriads  dare  to  front  him  yet ;  — 
That  friendless,  throneless,  he  thus  stands  at  bay, 
Ev'n  thus  a  match  for  myriads  such  as 
"  Oh,  for  a  sweep  of  that  dark  Angel's  wing, 
Who  brush'd  the  thousands  of  th'  Assyrian  Kir.g 
To  darkness  in  a  moment,  that  I  might 
People  Hell's  chambers  with  yon  host  to-ni  s 
But,  come  what  may,  let  who  will  grasp  the  throne, 
Cal  iph  or  Prophet,  Man  alike  shall  groan ; 
Let  who  will  torture  him,  Priest  —  Caliph  —  King— 
Ald^e  this  loathsome  world  of  his  shall  ring 
With  victims'  shrieks  and  howlings  of  the  slave,  — 
Sounds,  that  shall  glad  me  ev'n  within  my  grave  !  " 
Thus,  to  himself —  but  to  the  scanty  tram 
Still  left  around  him,  a  far  different  strain  :  — 
"  Glorious  Defenders  of  the  sacred  Crown 
I  bear  from  Heav'n.  whose  light  nor  blood  shall  drowa 
Nor  shadow  of  earth  eclipse  ;  —  before  whose  gems 
The  paly  pomp  of  this  world's  diadems, 
The  crown  of  Gerashid,  the  pillar'd  throne 
Of  Parviz,  and  the  heron  crest  that  shone, 
Magnificent,  o'er  Ali's  beauteous  eyes, 
F^de  like  the  stars  when  morn  is  in  the  skies : 


^6  LAIXA    ROoKH. 

Warriors,  rejoice  —  the  port  to  which  .ve  've  pass'd 
O'er  Destiny's  dark  wave,  beams  out  at  last ! 
Vict'ry  's  our  own  —  t  is  written  in  that  Book 
Upon  whose  leaves  none  but  the  angels  look, 
That  Islam's  sceptre  shall  beneath  the  power 
Of  her  great  foe  fall  broken  in  that  hour, 
Wnen  the  moon's  mighty  orb,  before  all  eyes, 
From  Neksheb's  Holy  Well  portentously  shall  rise! 
Now  turn  and  see  ! " 

They  turn'd,  and,  as  he  spoke, 
A  sudden  splendor  all  around  them  broke, 
And  they  beheld  an  orb,  ample  and  bright, 
Rise  from  the  Holy  Well,  and  cast  its  light 
Round  the  rich  city  and  the  plain  for  miles,  — 
Flinging  such  radiance  o'er  the  gilded  tiles 
Of  many  a  dome  and  fair-roof 'd  imaret, 
As  autumn  suns  shed  round  them  when  they  set. 
Instant  from  all  who  saw  th'  illusive  sign 
A  murmur  broke  —  "  Miraculous  !  divine  !  " 
The  Gheber  bow'd,  thinking  his  idol  star 
Had  waked,  and  burst  impatient  through  the  bar 
Of  midnight,  to  inflame  him  to  the  war  ; 
While  he  of  Moussa's  creed  saw,  in  that  ray, 
The  glorious  Light  which,  in  his  freedom's  day 
Had  rested  on  the  Ark,  and  now  again 
Shone  out  to  bless  the  breaking  of  his  chain. 

"  To  victory  !  "  is  at  once  the  cry  of  all  — 
Nor  stands  Mokanna  loit'ring  at  that  call  ; 
But  instant  the  huge  gates  are  flung  aside, 
And  forth,  like  a  diminutive  mountain- tide 
Into  the  boundless  sea,  they  speed  their  course 
Right  on  into  the  Moslem's  mighty  force. 


LALLA     ROOKH.  77 

The  \s  atchmen  of  the  camp,  —  who,  in  their  rounds, 
Had  paused,  and  ev'n  forgot  tlie  punctual  sounds 
Of  the  small  drum  with  which  they  count  the  night, 
To  iraze  upon  that  supernatural  light,  — 
Now  sink  beneath  an  unexpected  arm, 
And  in  a  death-groan  give  their  last  alarm. 
"  On  for  the  lamps  that  light  yon  lofty  screen, 
Nor  blunt  your  blades  with  massacre  so  mean ; 
There  rests  the  Caliph  —  speed  —  one  lucky  lance 
May  now  acliieve  mankind's  deliverance." 
Desp'rate  the  die  —  such  as  they  only  cast, 
Who  venture  for  a  world,  and  stake  their  last. 
But  Fate  's  no  longer  with  him  —  blade  for  blade 
Springs  up  to  meeet  them  thro'  the  glimm'ring  shade, 
And,  as  the  clash  is  heard,  new  legions  soon 
Pour  to  the  spot  like  bees  of  Kauzeroon 
To  the  shrill  timbrel's  summons,  —  till,  at  length, 
The  mighty  camp  swarms  out  in  all  its  strength, 
And  back  to  Neksheb's  gates,  covering  the  plain 
With  random  slaughter,  drives  the  adventurous  train 
Among  the  last  of  whom  the  Silver  Veil 
Is  seen  glitt'ring  at  times,  like  the  white  sail 
Of  some  toss'd  vessel,  on  a  stormy  night, 
Catching  the  tempest's  momentary  light ! 

And  hath  not  this  brought  the  proud  spirit  low  ? 

Nor  dash'd  his  brow,  nor  check'd  his  daring  ?     No 

Though  half  the  -wretches,  whom  at  night  he  icd 

To  thrones  and  vict'ry,  lie  disgraced  and  dead, 

Yet  morning  nears  him  witli  unslirinking  crest, 

Still  vaunt  of  thrones,  and  vict'ry  to  the  rest ;  — 

And  they  believe  him  !  —  oh,  the  lover  may 

Distrust  that  look  which  steals  his  soul  away  ;  — 

The  babe  may  cease  to  think  that  it  can  plav 
7* 


J 3  lalla    k 

With  Heaven's  rainbow;  —  alchymists  may  doubt 
The  shining  gold  their  crucible  gives  out ; 
But  Faith,  fanatic  Faith,  once  wedded  fast 
To  some  dear  falsehood,  hugs  it  to  the  last 

And  -well  tli'  Impostor  knew  all  lures  and  arts, 
That  Lucifer  e'er  taught  to  tangle  hearts ; 
Nor,  'mid  these  last  bold  workings  of  his  plot 
Against  men's  souls,  is  Zelica  forgot. 
Ill-fated  Zelica  !  had  reason  been 
Awake,  through  half  the  horrors  thou  hast  seen, 
Thou  never  couldst  have  borne  it  —  Death  had  cocift 
At  once,  and  taken  thy  wrung  spirit  home. 
But 't  was  not  so  —  a  torpor,  a  suspense 
Of  thought,  almost  of  life,  came  o'er  the  intense 
And  passionate  struggles  of  that  fearful  night, 
When  her  last  hope  of  peace  and  heav'n  took  flight 
And  though,  at  times,  a  gleam  of  frenzy  broke,  - 
As  through  some  dull  volcano's  veil  of  smoke 
Ominous  flashings  now  and  then  will  start, 
Which  show  the  fire 's  still  busy  at  its  heart, 
Yet  was  she  mostly  wrapp'd  in  solemn  gloom,  — 
Not  such  as  Azim's,  brooding  o'er  its  doom, 
And  caim  without,  as  is  the  brow  of  death, 
While  busy  worms  are  gnawing  underneath  — 
But  in  a  blank  and  pulseless  torpor,  free 
From  thought  or  pain,  a  seal'd-up  apathy, 
Which  left  her  oft,  with  scarce  one  living  thrill, 
I'lie  cold,  pale  victim  of  her  tort'rer's  wilL 

Again,  as  in  Merou,  he  had  her  deck'd 
Coigeously  out,  the  Priestess  of  the  sect; 
And  led  her  glitt'ring  forth  before  the  eyes 
Of  nis  rude  train,  as  to  a  sacrifice,  — 


LALLA    ROOKH.  79 

Pallid  as  she,  the  young  devoted  Bride 

Of  the  fierce  Nile,  when,  deck'd  in  all  the  pride 

Of  nuptial  pomp,  she  sinks  into  his  tide. 

And  while  the  wretched  maid  hung  down  her  head, 

And  stood,  as  one  just  risen  from  the  dead, 

Amid!  that  gazing  crowd,  the  fiend  would  tell 

His  credulous  slaves  it  was  some  charm  or  spell 

Possess'd  her  now  —  and  from  that  darken'd  trance 

Should  dawn  ere  long  their  Faith's  deliverance. 

Or  if,  at  times,  goaded  by  guilty  shame, 

Her  soul  was  roused,  and  words  of  wildness  came, 

Instant  the  bold  blasphemer  would  translate 

Her  ravings  into  oracles  of  fate, 

Would  hail  Heav'n's  signals  in  her  flashing  eyes, 

And  call  her  shrieks  the  language  of  the  skies ! 

But  vain  at  length  his  arts  —  despair  is  seen 
Gath'ring  around  ;  and  famine  comes  to  glean 
All  that  the  sword  hath  left  unreap'd  :  —  in  vain 
At  morn  and  eve  across  the  northern  plain 
He  looks  impatient  for  the  promised  spears 
Of  the  wild  Hordes  and  Tartar  mountaineers  ; 
They  come  not — while  his  fierce  beleaguerers  pear 
Engines  of  havoc  in,  unknown  before, 
And  horrible  as  new  ;  —  javelins,  that  fly 
Enwreath'd  with  smoky  flames  through  the  dark  sky 
And  red-hot  globes,  that,  opening  as  they  mount, 
Discharge,  as  from  a  kindled  Naptha  fount, 
Show'rs  of  consuming  fire  o'er  all  below  ; 
Looking,  as  through  th'  illumined  night  they  go, 
Like  those  wild  birds  that  by  the  Magians  oft, 
At  festivals  of  fire,  were  sent  aloft 
Into  the  air,  with  blazing  fagots  tied 
To  their  huge  wings,  scatt'ring  combustion  wide 


£0  LALLA     ROOKH. 

All  night  the  groa7is  of  wretches  ^  ho  expire, 
Li  affony,  beneath  those  darts  of  fire, 
Ring  through  the  city  —  while,  descending  o'er 
Its  shrines  and  domes  and  streets  of  sycamore,  — 
Its  lone  bazaars,  with  their  bright  cloths  of  gold, 
Sine*1  the  last  peaceful  pageant  left  unroll'd,  — 
Its  beauteous  marble  baths,  whose  idle  jets 
Now  gush  with  blood,  —  and  its  tall  minarets, 
That  late  have  stood  up  in  the  evening  glare 
Of  the  red  sun,  unhallow'd  by  a  prayer ;  — 
0"er  each,  in  turn,  the  dreadful  flame-bolts  fall, 
And  death  and  conflagration  throughout  all 
The  desolate  city  hold  high  festival ! 

Mokanua  sees  the  world  is  his  no  more  ;  — 
One  sting  at  parting,  and  his  grasp  is  o'er. 
;  What !   drooping    now  ?  ;'  —  thus,    with    unblushing 

eh< 
He  hails  the  few,  who  yet  can  hear  him  speak, 
Of  all  those  famish' d  slaves  around  him  lying, 
And  by  the  light  of  blazing  temples  dying ;  — 
"What !  —  drooping  now ?  —  now,  when  at  length  wa 

oress 
Home  o'er  the  very  threshold  of  success ; 
When  Alia  from  our  ranks  hath  thinn'd  away 
Those  grosser  branches,  that  kept  out  his  ray 
Of  favor  from  us,  and  we  stand  at  length 
Heirs  of  his  light  and  children  of  his  strength, 
The  chosen  few,  who  shall  survive  the  fall 
Of  Kings  and  Thrones,  triumphant  over  all ! 
Have  you  then  lost,  weak  murm'rers  as  you  are, 
All  faith  in  him  who  was  your  Light,  your  Star? 
Have  vou  forgot  the'  eye  of  glory,  hid 
Beneatn  this  Veil,  the  flashing  of  whose  lid 


L.SLLA    ROOKH.  8 

Could,  like  a  sun-stroke  of  the  desert,  wither 

Millions  of  such  as  yonder  Chief  brings  hither  ? 

Long  have  its  lightnings  slept  —  too  long  —  but  now 

All  earth  shall  feel  tli'  unveiling  of  this  brow ! 

To-night  —  yes,  sainted  men !  this  very  night, 

I  bid  you  all  to  a  fair  festal  rite, 

Where  —  having  deep  refresh'd  each  weary  limb 

With  viands,  such  as  feast  Pleav'n's  cherubim, 

And  kindled  up  your  souls,  now  sunk  and  dim, 

With  that  pure  wine  the  Dark-eyed  Maids  above 

Keep,  seal'd  with  precious  musk,  for  those  they  love,  — 

I  will  myself  uncurtain  in  your  sight 

The  wonders  of  this  brow's  ineffable  light ; 

Then  lead  you  forth,  and  with  a  wink  disperse 

Yon  myriads,  howling  tlirough  the  universe  !  " 

Eager  they  listen — while  each  accent  darts 
New  life  into  their  chdl'd  and  hope-sick  hearts  ; 
Such  treach'rous  life  as  the  cool  draught  supplies 
To  him  upon  the  stake,  who  drinks  and  dies ! 
Wildly  they  point  their  lances  to  the  light 
Of  the  fast-sinking  sun,  and  shout  "  To-night !  "  — 
"  To-night,"  their  Chief  re-echoes  in  a  voice 
Of  fiend-like  mock'ry  that  bids  hell  rejoice. 
Deluded  victims  !  —  never  hath  this  earth 
Seen  mourning  half  so  mournful  as  their  mirth. 
Here,  to  the  few,  whose  iron  frames  had  stood 
This  racking  waste  of  famine  and  of  blood, 
Faint,  dying  wretches  clung,  from  whom  the  shout 
Of  triumph  like  a  maniac's  laugh  broke  out :  — 
There,  others,  lighted  by  the  smould'ring  fire, 
Danced,  like  wan  ghosts  about  a  funeral  pyre, 
Among  the  dead  and  dying,  strew'd  around ;  — 
While  some  pale  wretch  look'd  on,  and  from  his  wiund 


-z^) 


ff2  LALI.A     ROOKH. 

Plucking  the  fiery  dart  by  which  he  hied. 
In  ghastly  transport  waved  it  o'er  his  head ! 

'T  was  more  than  midnight  now  —  a  fearful  pause 
Had  follow'd  the  long  shouts,  the  wild  applause, 
That  lately  from  those  Royal  Gardens  burst, 
Where  the  veil'd  demon  held  his  feast  accursed, 
When  Zelica  —  alas,  poor  ruin'd  heart, 
In  ev'ry  horror  doom'd  to  bear  its  part!  — 
Was  bidden  to  the  banquet  by  a  slave, 
Who,  while  his  quiv'ring  lip  the  summons  gave, 
Grew  black,  as  though  the  shadows  of  the  grave 
Compass'd  him  round,  and  ere  he  could  repeat 
His  message  through,  fell  lifeless  at  her  feet ! 
Shudd'ring  she  went  —  a  soul-felt  pang  of  fear, 
A  presage  that  her  own  dark  doom  was  near, 
Roused  ev'ry  feeling,  and  brought  Reason  back 
Once  more,  to  writhe  her  last  upon  the  rack. 
All  round  seem'd  tranquil  —  ev'n  the  foe  had  ceased 
As  if  aware  of  that  demoniac  feast, 
His  fiery  bolts  ;  and  though  the  heav'ns  look'd  red, 
'T  was  but  some  distant  conflagration's  spread. 
But  hark  —  she  stops  —  she  listens  —  dreadful  tone ! 
T  is  her  Tormenter's  laugh  —  and  now,  a  groan, 
A  long  death-groan  comes  with  it:  —  can  this  be 
The  place  of  mirth,  the  bower  of  revelry  ? 
She  enters  —  Holy  Alia !  what  a  sight 
Was  there  before  her !     By  the  glimm'riHg  light 
Of  the  pale  dawn,  mix'd  with  the  flare  of  brands 
That  round  lay  burning,  dropp'd  from  lifeless  hands, 
She  saw  the  board,  in  splendid  mockery  spread, 
Rich  censors  breathing  —  garlands  overhead  — 
The  urns,  the  cups,  from  which  they  late  had  quaiFd 
All  gold  and  gems,  but  —  what  had  been  the  draught ' 


LALLA     ROOKH.  83 

Oh !  who  need  ask,  that  saw  those  livid  guests, 

With    their   swoll'n    heads   sunk   black'ning  on  their 

breasts, 
Or  looking  pale  to  Heav'n  with  glassy  glare, 
As  if  they  sought  but  saw  no  mercy  there  ; 
As  ir  they  felt,  though  poison  rack'd  them  through, 
Remorse  the  deadlier  torment  of  the  two  ! 
While  some,  the  bravest,  hardiest  in  the  train 
Oe  their  false  Chief,  who  on  the  battle-plain 
Would  have  met  death  with  transport  by  his  side, 
Here  mute  and  helpless  gasp'd  ;  —  but,  as  they  died, 
Look'd  horrible  vengeance  with  their  eyes'  last  strain 
And  clench'd  the  slack'ning  hand  at  him  in  vain. 

Dreadful  it  was  to  see  the  ghastly  stare, 
The  stony  look  of  horror  and  despair, 
Which  some  of  these  expiring  victims  cast 
Upon  their  souls'  tormentor  to  the  last ;  — 
Upon  that  mocking  Fiend,  ""whose  veil,  now  raised, 
Show'd  them,  as  in  death's  agony  they  gazed, 
Not  the  long  piomised  light,  the  brow,  whose  beaming 
Was  to  come  forth,  all  conqu'ring,  all  redeeming, 
But  features  horribler  thau  Hell  e'er  traced 
On  its  own  brood  ;  —  no  Demon  of  the  Waste, 
No  churchyard  Ghole,  caught  ling'ring  in  the  light 
Of  the  blest  sun,  e'er  blasted  human  sight 
With  lineaments  so  foul,  so  fierce  as  those 
Th'  Impostor  now,  in  grinning  mcck'ry,  shows  :  — 
"  There,  ye  wise  Saints,  behold  your  Light,  your  Star  — 
Ye  would  be  dupes  and  victims,  and  ye  are. 
Is  it  enough  ?  or  mu=t  I,  while  a  thrill 
Lives  in  your  sapient  bosoms,  cheat  you  still  ? 
Swear  that  the  burning  death  ye  feel  within 
la  but  the  trance  with  which  Heav'n's  joys  begin ; 


84  LALLA    ROOKH. 

That  this  foul  visage,  foul  as  e'er  disgraced 

Ev'n  monstrous  man,  is  —  after  God's  own  taste  ; 

And  that  —  but  see  !  —  ere  I  have  half-way  said 

My  greetings  through,  th'  uncourteous  souls  are  fled 

Farewell,  sweet  spirits  !  not  in  vain  ye  die, 

If  Eblis  loves  you  half  so  well  as  I. — 

Ha,  my  young  bride !  —  't  is  well  —  take  thou  thy  seat 

Nay  come  —  no  shudd'ring  —  didst  thou  never  meet 

The  Dead  before  ?  —  they  graced  our  wedding,  sweet; 

And  these,  my  guests  to-night,  have  brimm'd  so  true 

Their  parting  cups,  that  thou  shalt  pledge  one  too. 

But  —  how  is  this  ?  —  all  empty  ?  all  drunk  up  ? 

Hot  lips  have  been  before  thee  in  the  cup, 

Young  bride  —  yet  stay  —  one  precious  drop  remains, 

Enough  to  warm  a  gentle  Priestess'  veins ;  — 

Here,  drink  —  and  should  thy  lover's  conqu'ring  arms 

Speed  hither,  ere  thy  lip  lose  all  its  charms, 

Give  him  but  half  this  venom  in  thy  kiss, 

And  I  '11  forgive  my  haughty  rival's  bliss  ! 

"For  me  — I  too  must  die  — but  not  like  these 
Vile,  rankling  things,  to  fester  in  the  breeze ; 
To  have  this  brow  in  ruffian  triumph  shown, 
With  all  death's  grimness  added  to  its  own, 
And  rot  to  dust  beneath  the  taunting  eyes 
Of  slaves,  exclaiming,  '  There  his  Godship  lies  ! ' 
No  —  cursed  race  —  since  first  my  soul  drew  breathj 
They  've  been  my  dupes,  and  shall  be  ev'n  in  death 
Thou  see'st  yon  cistern  in  the  shade  —  't  is  fill'd 
With  burning  drugs,  for  this  last  hour  distill'd:  — 
There  will  I  plunge  me  in  that  liquid  flame  — 
Fit  bath  to  lave  a  dying  Prophet's  frame  !  — 
There  perish,  all  —  ere  pulse  of  thine  shall  fan  — 
Nor  leave  one  limb  to  tell  mankind  the  tale. 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


& 


Bo  shall  my  votaries,  wheresoe'er  they  rave, 

Proclaim  that  Heav'n  took  back  the  Saint  it  gave ;  — 

That  I  've  but  vanish'd  from  this  earth  awhile, 

To  come  again,  with  bright,  unshrouded  smile . 

So  shal1  they  build  me  altars  in  their  zeal, 

Where  knaves  shall  minister,  and  fools  shall  kneel; 

Where  Faith  may  mutter  o'er  her  mystic  spell, 

Written  in  blood,  and  Bigotry  may  swell 

The  sail  he  spreads  for  Heav'n  with  blasts  from  hell 

So  shall  my  banner,  through  long  ages,  be 

The  rallying  sign  of  fraud  and  anarchy  ;  — 

Kings  yet  unborn  shall  rue  Mokanna's  name, 

And,  though  I  die,  my  spirit,  still  the  same, 

Shall  walk  abroad  in  all  the  stormy  strife, 

And  guilt,  and  blood,  that  were  its  bliss  in  life.  — 

Bat,  hark!  their  batt'ring  engine  shakes  the  wall  — 

Why,  let  it  shake  —  thus  I  can  brave  them  all. 

No  trace  of  me  shall  greet  them,  when  they  come, 

And  I  can  trust  thy  faith,  for  —  thou 'It  be  dumb. 

Now  mark  how  readily  a  wretch  like  me, 

In  one  bold  plunge  commences  Deity ! " 


He  sprung  and  sunk,  as  the  last  words  were  said  ■ 
Quick  closed  the  burning  waters  o'er  his  head, 
And  Zelica  was  left  —  within  the  ring 
Of  those  wide  walls  the  only  living  thing ; 
The  only  wretched  one,  still  cursed  with  breath, 
In  all  that  frightful  wilderness  of  death ! 
More  like  some  bloodless  ghost  —  such  as,  they  tell, 
In  the  Lone  Cities  of  the  Silent  dwell, 
And  there,  unseen  of  all  but  Alia,  sit, 
Each  by  its  own  pale  carcass,  watching  it 


66  LALT.A    HOOKH. 

But  morn  is  up,  and  a  fresh  warfare  stirs 
Throughout  die  camp  of  the  beleaguerers. 
Their  globes  of  fire  (the  dread  artilPry  lent 
By  Greece  to  conqu'ring  Mahadi)  are  spent ; 
And  now  the  scorpion's  shaft,  the  quarry  sent 
From  high  balistas,  and  the  shielded  throng 
Of  soldiers  swinging  the  huge  ram  along, 
All  speak  th'  impatient  Islamite's  intent 
To  try,  at  length,  if  tower  and  battlement 
And  bastion'd  wall  be  not  less  hard  to  win, 
Less  tough  to  break  down  than  the  hearts  within. 
First  in  impatience  and  in  toil  is  he, 
The  burning  Azim  —  oh !  could  he  but  see 
Th'  Impostor  once  alive  within  his  grasp, 
Not  the  gaunt  lion's  hug,  nor  boa's  clasp, 
Could  match  that  gripe  of  vengeance,  or  keep  pace 
With  the  fell  heartiness  of  Hate's  embrace  ! 

Loud  rings  the  pond'rous  ram  against  the  walls ; 
Now  shake  the  ramparts,  now  a  buttress  falls, 
But  still  no  breach  —  "Once  more,  one  mighty  swing 
Of  all  your  beams,  together  thundering ! " 
There  —  the  wall  shakes  —  the  shouting  troops  exult, 
"  Quick,  quick  discharge  your  weightiest  catapult 
Right  on  that  spot,  and  Neksheb  is  our  own  !  " 
'T  is  done  —  the  battlements  come  crashing  down, 
And  the  huge  wall,  by  that  stroke  riv'n  in  two, 
Yawning,  like  some  old  crater,  rent  anew, 
Shows  the  dim,  desolate  city  smoking  through. 
But  strange !  no  signs  of  life  —  naught  living  seeD 
Above,  below  —  what  can  this  stillness  mean  ? 
A  minute's  pause  suspends  all  hearts  and  eyes  — 
"In  through  the  breach,"  impetuous  Azim  cries* 


I.ALLA    ROOKH.  87 

But  the  cool  Caliph,  fearful  of  some  wile 

In  this  blank  stillness,  checks  the  troops  awhile,  — 

Just  then,  a  figure,  with  slow  step,  advanced 

Forth  from  the  ruin'd  walls,  and,  as  there  glanced 

A  sunbeam  over  it,  all  eyes  could  see 

The  well-known  Silver  Veil !  —  "  'T  is  He,  't  is  He, 

Mokanna,  and  alone  ! "  they  shout  around ; 

Young  Azim  from  his  steed  springs  to  the  ground  - 

"  Mine,  Holy  Caliph  !  mine,"  he  cries,  "  the  task 

To  crush  yon  daring  wretch  —  't  is  all  I  ask." 

Eager  he  darts  to  meet  the  demon  foe, 

Who  still  across  wide  heaps  of  ruin  slow 

And  falteringly  comes,  till  they  are  near ; 

Then,  with  a  bound,  rushes  on  Azitn's  spear, 

And,  casting  off  the  Veil  in  falling,  shows  — 

Oh !  —  't  is  his  Zelica's  life-blood  that  flows  ! 

"  I  meant  not,  Azim,"  soothingly  she  said, 
As  on  his  trembling  arm  she  lean'd  her  head, 
And,  looking  in  his  face,  saw  anguish  there 
Beyond  all  wounds  the  quiv'ring  flesh  can  bear    - 
"  I  meant  not  thou  shouldst  have  the  pain  of  this :  ■■■•» 
Though  death,  with  thee  thus  tasted,  is  a  bliss 
Thou  wouldst  not  rob  me  of,  didst  thou  but  know 
How  oft  I  've  pray'd  to  God  I  might  die  so ! 
But  the  Fiend's  venom  was  too  scant  and  slow ;  -  - 
To  linger  on  were  madd'ning —  and  I  thought 
If  once  that  Veil  —  nay,  look  not  on  it  —  caught 
The  eyes  of  your  fierce  soldiery,  I  should  be 
Struck  by  a  thousand  death-darts  instantly. 
But  this  is  sweeter —  oh!  believe  me,  yes  — 
I  would  not  change  this  sad,  but  dear  caress, 
This  death  within  thy  arms  I  would  not  give 
For  the  most  smiling  life  the  nappiest  live  ! 


I  LALLA    ROOKH. 

All,  tliat  stood  dark  and  drear  before  the  eye 

Of  my  stray'd  soul,  is  passing  swiftly  by ; 

A  light  comes  o'er  me  from  those  looks  of  love, 

Like  the  first  dawn  of  mercy  from  above : 

And  if  thy  lips  but  tell  me  I  'm  forgiv'n, 

Angels  will  echo  the  blest  words  in  Heav'n ! 

But  live,  my  Azim ;  —  oh !  to  call  thee  mine 

Thus  once  again !  my  Azim  —  dream  divine  ! 

Live,  if  thou  ever  lov'dst  me,  if  to  meet 

Thy  Zelica  hereafter  would  be  sweet, 

Oh,  live  to  pray  for  her  —  to  bend  the  knee 

Morning  and  night  before  that  Deity, 

To  whom  pure  lips  and  hearts  without  a  stain, 

As  thine  are,  Azim,  never  breathed  in  vain,  — 

And  pray  that  He  may  pardon  her,  —  may  take 

Compassion  on  her  soul  for  thy  dear  sake, 

And,  naught  rememb'ring  but  her  love  to  thee, 

Make  her  all  thine,  all  His,  eternally ! 

Go  to  those  happy  fields  where  first  we  twined 

Our  youthful  hearts  together  —  every  wind 

That  meets  thee  there,  fresh  from  the  well-know^ 

flow'rs, 
Will  bring  the  sweetness  of  those  innocent  hours 
Back  to  thy  soul,  and  thou  mayst  feel  again 
For  thy  poor  Zelica  as  thou  didst  then. 
So  shall  thy  orison,  like  dew  that  flies 
To  Heav'n  upon  the  morning's  sunshine,  rise 
With  ail  love's  earliest  ardor  to  the  sides  ! 
And  should  they  —  but,  alas,  my  senses  fail  — 
Oh  for  one  minute  !  —  should  thy  prayers  prevail  — 
If  pardon'd  souls  may,  from  that  World  of  Bliss, 
Reveal  their  joy  to  those  they  love  in  this  — 
I  '11  come  to  thee  —  in  some  sweet  dream  —  and  tell  — 
Oh  Heav'n —  I  die  —  dear  love  !  farewell,  farewell.* 


LALLA    ROOKH.  5S 

Time  fleeted  —  years  on  years  had  pass'd  away, 
And  few  of  those  who,  on  that  mournful  day. 
Had  stood,  with  pity  in  their  eyes,  to  see 
The  maiden's  death,  and  the  youth's  agony, 
Were  living  still  —  when,  by  a  rustic  grave. 
Beside  tho  swift  Amoo's  transparent  wave, 
An  aged  man,  who  had  grown  aged  there 
By  that  lone  grave,  morning  and  night  in  prayer, 
For  the  last  time  knelt  down  —  and,  though  the  shade 
Of  death  hung  darkening  over  him,  there  play'd 
A  gleam  of  rapture  on  his  eye  and  cheek, 
That  brighten'd  even  Death  —  like  the  last  streak 
Of  intense  glory  on  th'  horizon's  brim, 
When  night  o'er  all  the  rest  hangs  chill  and  dim. 
His  soul  had  seen  a  Vision,  while  he  slept ; 
She,  for  whose  spirit  he  hid  pray'd  and  wept 
So  many  years,  had  come  to  him,  all  dress'd 
In  angel  smiles,  and  told  him  she  was  blest ! 
For  this  the  old  man  breathed  his  thanks,  and  died 
And  there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  loved  tidwj 
He  and  his  Zelica  sleep  side  by  side 
6» 


90 


The  story  of  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan  be  i  g 
ended,  they  were  now  doomed  to  hear  Fadl 
criticism  upon  it.  A  series  of  disappointme:: 
accidents  had  occurred  to  this  learned  Chamberlain 
during  the  journey.  In  the  first  place,  those  couriers 
stationed,  as  in  the  reign  of  Shah  Jehan,  between  Delhi 
and  the  Western  coast  of  India,  to  secure  a  constant 
supply  of  mangoes  for  the  Royal  Table,  had,  by  some 
cruel  irregularity,  failed  in  their  duty ;  and  to  eat  any 
mangoes  but  those  of  Mazagong  was,  of  course,  impos- 
sible. In  the  next  place,  the  elephant,  laden  with  his 
fine  antique  porcelain,  had,  in  an  unusual  fit  of  live- 
liness, shattered  the  whole  set  to  pieces:  —  an  irrepara- 
ble loss,  as  many  of  the  vessels  were  so  exquisitely  old, 
as  to  have  been  used  under  the  Emperors  Yan  and 
Chun,  who  reigned  many  ages  before  the  dynasty  of 
Tang.  His  Koran,  too,  supposed  to  be  the  identical 
copy  between  the  leaves  of  which  Mahomet's  favorite 
pigeon  used  to  nestle,  had  been  mislaid  by  his  Koran- 
bearor  three  whole  days ;  not  without  much  spiritual 
alarm  to  Fadladeen,  who,  though  professing  to  hold 
with  ether  loyal  and  orthodox  Mussulmans,  that  salvation 
could  only  be  found  in  the  Koran,  was  strongly  sus- 
pected of  believing  in  his  heart,  that  it  could  only  be 
femd  in  his  own  particular  copy  of  it.  When  to  all 
tnese  grievances  is  added  the  obstinacy  of  the  cooks, 
in  putting  the  pepper  of  Canara  into  his  dishes  instead 
of  the  cinnamon  of  Serendib,  we  may  easdy  suppose 
that  he  came  to  the  task  of  criticism  with,  at  least,  a 
sufficient  degree  of  irritability  for  the  purpose 


LALLA    ROOKH.  01 

In  order,"  said  he,  importantly  swinging  about  his 
..haplet  of  pearls,  "to  convey  with  clearness  my  opinion 
~)f  the  story  this  young  man  has  related,  it  is  necessary 

to  take  a  review  of  all  the  stories  that  have  ever " 

— "  My  good  Fadladeen !  "  exclaimed  the  Princess, 
interrupting  him,  "  we  really  do  not  deserve  that  you 
should  give  yourself  so  much  trouble.  Your  opinion 
of  the  poem  we  have  just  heard,  will,  I  have  no  doubt, 
be  abundantly  edifying,  without  any  further  waste  of 
year  valuable  erudition." — "If  that  be  all,"  replied  the 
critic,  —  evidently  mortified  at  not  being  allowed  to  show 
how  much  he  knew  about  every  thing  but  the  subject  im- 
mediately before  him  —  "  if  that  be  all  that  is  required, 
the  matter  is  easily  dispatched."  He  then  proceeded 
to  analyze  the  poem,  in  that  strain  (so  well  known  to 
the  unfortunate  bards  of  Delhi)  whose  censures  were 
an  infliction  from  which  few  recovered,  and  whose  very 
praises  were  like  the  honey  extracted  from  the  bitter 
flowers  of  the  aloe.  The  chief  personages  of  the  story 
were,  if  he  rightly  understood  them,  an  ill-favored 
gentleman,  with  a  veil  over  his  face ;  —  a  young  lady, 
whose  reason  went  and  came,  according  as  it  suited 
the  poet's  convenience  to  be  sensible  or  otherwise;  — 
and  a  youth  in  one  of  those  hideous  Bucharian  bonnets, 
who  took  the  aforesaid  gentleman  in  a  veil  for  a  Divin- 
ity. "From  such  materials,"  said  he,  "what  can  be 
expected?  —  after  rivalling  each  other  in  long  speeding 
find  absurdities,  through  some  thousands  of  line3  as 
indigestible  as  the  filberts  of  Berdaa,  our  friend  in  the 
veil  jumps  into  a  tub  of  aquafortis ;  the  young  lady 
dies  in  a  set  speech,  whose  only  recommendation  is 
that  it  is  her  last ;  and  the  lover  lives  on  to  a  good  old 
age,  for  the  laudible  purpose  of  seeing  her  ghost,  which 
ne  at  last  happily  accomplishes,  and  expires.     This. 


■•■■-■-  =* 


92  LALLA    ROOKH. 

you  will  allow,  is  a  fair  summary  of  the  story  ;  and  il 
Nasser,  the  Arabian  merchant,  told  no  better,  our  Hoty 
Prophet  (to  whom  be  all  honor  and  glory ! )  had  no  need 
to  be  jealous  of  his  abilities  for  story-telling." 

With  respect  to  the  style,  it  was  worthy  of  the  mat- 
ter;—  it  had  not  even  those  pontic  contrivances  of 
structure,  which  make  up  for  the  commonness  of  the 
thoughts  by  the  peculiarity  of  the  manner,  nor  that. 
stately  poetical  phraseology  by  which  sentiments  mean 
in  themselves,  like  the  blacksmith's  apron  converted 
into  a  banner,  are  so  easily  gilt  and  embroidered  into 
consequence.  Then,  as  to  the  versification,  it  was,  to 
say  no  worse  of  it,  execrable :  it  had  neither  the  copious 
flow  of  Ferdosi,  the  sweetness  of  Hafez,  nor  the  sen- 
tentious march  of  Sadi ;  but  appeared  to  him,  in  the 
uneasy  heaviness  of  its  movements,  to  have  been 
modelled  upon  the  gait  of  a  very  tired  dromedary.  The 
licenses,  too,  in  vt  Inch  it  indulged,  were  unpardonable  ; 
— for  instance  this  line,  and  the  poem  abounded  with 
sucn; — 

Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream. 

"What  critic  that  can  count,"  said  Fadladeen,  "  and 
has  his  full  complement  of  fingers  to  count  withal, 
would  tolerate  for  an  instant  such  syllabic  superflu- 
ities?"—  He  here  looked  round,  and  discovered  that 
most  of  his  audience  were  asleep ;  while  the  glimmer- 
ing lamps  seemed  inclined  to  follow  their  example.  It 
became  necessary,  therefore,  however  painful  to  him- 
self, to  put  an  end  to  his  valuable  animadversions  for 
the  present,  and  he  accordingly  concluded,  witn  an  air 
of  dignified  candor,  thus  :  —  "  Notwithstanding  the 
observations  which  I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  make, 
it  is  by  no  means  mv  wish  to  discourage  the  young 


£ALLA    ROOKH.  93 

man .  —  so  far  from  it,  indeed,  that  if  he  will  but  totally 
alter  his  style  of  writing  and  thinking,  I  have  very 
little  doubt  that  I  shall  be  vastly  pleased  w  th  him." 

Some  days  elapsed,  after  this  harangue  i  f  the  Great 
Chamberlain,  before  Lalla  Rookh  could  venture  to  ask 
for  another  story.  The  youth  was  still  a  welc  me 
guest  in  the  pavilion  —  to  one  heart,  perhaps,  toe 
dangerously  welcome ;  —  but  all  mention  of  poetry  was, 
as  if  by  common  consent,  avoided.  Though  none  of 
the  party  had  much  respect  for  Fadladeen,  yet  his  cen- 
sures, thus  magisterially  delivered,  evidently  made  an 
impression  on  tliem  alL  The  Poet,  himself,  to  whom 
criticism  was  quite  a  new  operation,  (being  wholly 
unknown  in  that  Paradise  of  the  Indies,  Cashmere,) 
felt  the  shock  as  it  is  generally  felt  at  first,  till  use  has 
made  it  more  tolerable  to  the  patient;  —  the  Ladies 
began  to  suspect  that  they  ought  not  to  be  pleased,  and 
seemed  to  conclude  that  there  must  have  been  much 
good  sense  in  what  Fadladeen  said,  from  its  having  set 
them  all  so  soundly  to  sleep  ;  —  while  the  self-compla- 
cent Chamberlain  was  left  to  triumph  in  the  idea  of 
having,  for  the  hundred  and  fiftieth  time  in  his  life, 
extinguished  a  Poet  Lalla  Re okh  alone  —  and  Love 
knew  why  —  persisted  in  being  delighted  with  all  she 
had  heard,  and  resolving  to  hear  more  as  speedily  aa 
possible.  Her  manner,  however,  of  first  returning  to 
the  subject  was  unlucky.  It  was  while  they  rested 
during  the  heat  of  noon  near  a  fountain,  on  which  some 
hand  had  rudely  traced  those  weD-known  words  from 
the  Garden  of  Sadi,  —  '-Many,  like  me,  have  viewed  this 
fountain,  but  they  are  gone,  and  their  eyes  are  closed  for 
ever ! ;'  —  that  she  took  occasion,  from  the  melancholy 
beauty  of  this  passage,  to  dwell  upon  the  charms  of  po- 
etry in  general.     "  It  is  true,"  she  said,  "  few  poets  can 


94  LALLA     ROOXH. 

imitate  that  sublime  bird,  which  flies  always  in  the  air 
and  never  touches  the  earth  :  —  it  is  only  once  in  many 
ages  a  Genius  appears,  whose  words,  like  those  on  the 
Written  Mountain,  last  forever:  —  but  still  there  are 
some,  as  delighted,  perhaps,  though  not  so  wonderful, 
who,  if  not  stars  over  our  head,  are  at  least  flowers 
iiong  our  path,  and  whose  sweetness  of  the  moment 
we  ought  gratefully  to  inhale,  without  calling  upon 
them  for  a  brightness  and  a  durability  beyond  their 
nature.  In  short,"  continued  she,  blushing,  as  if  con- 
scious of  being  caught  in  an  oration,  "  it  is  quite  cruel 
that  a  poet  cannot  wander  through  his  regions  of 
enchantment,  without  having  a  critic  forever,  like  the 
old  Man  of  the  Sea,  upon  his  back ! "  —  Fadladeen,  it 
was  plain,  took  this  last  luckless  allusion  to  himself, 
and  would  treasure  it  up  in  his  mind  as  a  whetstone  for 
his  next  criticism.  A  sudden  silence  ensued ;  and  the 
Princess,  glancing  a  look  at  Feramorz,  saw  plainly  she 
must  wait  for  a  more  courageous  moment. 

But  the  glories  of  Nature,  and  her  wild,  fragrant  airs, 
playing  freshly  over  the  current  of  youthful  spirts,  will 
soon  heal  even  deeper  wounds  than  the  dull  Fadladeens 
of  this  world  can  inflict.  In  an  evening  or  two  after, 
they  came  to  the  small  Valley  of  Gardens,  which  had 
been  planted  by  order  of  the  Emperor,  for  his  favorite 
sister  Rochinara,  during  their  progress  to  Cashmere, 
some  years  before  ;  and  never  was  there  a  more  spark- 
ling assemblage  of  sweets  since  the  Gulzar-e-Irem,  or 
Rose-bower  of  Irem.  Every  precious  flower  was  there 
to  be  found,  that  poetry,  or  love,  or  religion,  has  ever 
consecrated;  from  the  dark  hyacinth,  to  which  Hafez 
compares  his  mistress's  hair,  to  the  Cumahtd,  by  whose 
rosy  blossoms  the  heaven  of  Indra  is  scented.  As  they 
cat  in  the  cool  fragrance  of  this  delicious  spot,  and 


LALI.A    ROOKH.  95 

Lalla  Rookh  remarked  that  she  could  fancy  it  the  abode 
of  that  Flower-loving  Nymph  whom  they  worship  ih 
the  temples  of  Kathay,  or  of  one  of  those  Peris,  those 
beautiful  creatures  of  the  air,  who  live  upon  perfumes, 
and  to  whom  a  place  like  this  might  make  some  amends 
for  the  Paradise  they  have  lost,  —  the  young  Poet,  in 
whose  eyes  she  appeared,  while  she  spoke,  to  be  one 
of  the  bright  spiritual  creatures  she  was  describing, 
said  hesitatingly  that  he  remembered  a  Story  of  a  Peri, 
which,  if  the  Princess  had  no  objection,  he  would  ven- 
ture to  relate.  "  It  is,"  said  he,  with  an  appealing  look 
to  Fadladeen,  "  in  a  lighter  and  humbler  strain  than  the 
other;"  then,  striking  a  few  careless  but  melancholy 
chords  on  his  kitar  he  thus  began : 


96 


PARADISE  AND  THE  PERI 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood  disconsolate  ; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place ! 

"  How  happy,"  exclaim'd  this  child  of  air 
"  Are  the  holy  Spirits  who  wander  there, 

Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me, 

One  blossom  of  Heaven  outblooms  them  ail ! 


"  Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  Isle  reflected  clear, 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  Valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray, 
Yet —  oh,  'tis  only  the  Blest  can  say 
How  the  waters  of  Heaven  outshine  them  all 


"  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star. 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 


LALLA    ROOKH.  97 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  -wall : 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years, 
One  minute  of  heaven  is  worth  them  all ! " 

The  glorious  Angel,  who  was  keeping 
The  gates  of  Light,  beheld  her  weeping ; 
And,  as  he  nearer  drew  and  listen'd 
To  her  sad  song,  a  tear-drop  glisten'd 
Within  his  eyelids,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flow'r,  which  —  Bramins  say  — 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Paradise. 

'  Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line ! " 
Gently  he  said  —  "  One  hope  is  thine. 
'T  is  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

The  Peri  yet  may  he  forgiv'n 
Who  brings  to  this  Eternal  gale 

The  Gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heatfn  f 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  let  the  pardon'd  in." 

Rapidly  as  comets  run 

To  th'  embraces  of  the  Sun   — 

Fleeler  than  the  starry  brands 

Flung  at  night  from  angel  hands 

At  those  dark  and  daring  sprites 

Who  would  climb  th'  empyreal  heights, 

Down  the  blue  vault  the  Peri  flies, 

And,  lighted  earthward  by  a  glance 
That  just  then  broke  from  morning's  eyes, 

Hung  r.  ov'ring  o'er  our  world's  expanse. 


93 


LALLA   rookh. 

But  whither  shall  the  Spirit  go 

To  find  this  gift  for  Heav'n ?  —  "I  know 

The  wealth,"  she  cries,  "  of  every  urn 

In  which  unnumber'd  rubies  burn, 

Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar; 

I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  are, 

Many  a  fathom  down  in  the  sea, 

To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Araby  ; 

I  know,  too,  where  the  Genii  hid 

The  jewell'd  cup  of  their  King  Jamshid, 

With  Life's  elixir  sparkling  high  — 

But  gifts  like  these  are  not  for  the  sky. 

Where  was  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

Like  the  steps  of  Alla's  wonderful  Throne  ? 

And  the  Drops  of  Life  —  oh!  what  would  they  ba 

In  the  boundless  Deep  of  Eternity  ?  " 


While  thus  she  mused,  her  pinions  fann'd 
The  air  of  that  sweet  Indian  land, 
Whose  air  is  balm ;  whose  ocean  spreads 
O'er  coral  rocks,  and  amber  beds  ; 
Whose  mountains,  pregnant  by  the  beam 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with  diamonds  teem 
Whose  rivulets  are  like  rich  brides, 
Lovely,  with  gold  beneath  their  tides ; 
Whose  sandal  groves  and  bow'rs  of  spice 
Might  be  a  Peri's  Paradise  ! 
But  crimson  now  her  rivers  ran 

With  human  blood  —  the  smell  of  death 
Came  reeking  from  those  spicy  bow'rs, 
And  man,  the  sacrifice  of  man, 

Mingled  his  taint  with  ev'ry  breath 
Upwafted  from  th'  innocent  flow'rs 


I-AiLA    ROOKH.  9S 

Land  of  the  Sun !  what  foot  invades 
Thy  Pagods  and  thy  pillar'd  shades  — 
Thy  cavern  shrines,  and  Idol  stones, 
Thy  Monarchs  and  their  thousand  Tlirones  ' 
'T  is  He  of  Gazna  —  fierce  in  wrath 

He  comes,  and  India's  diadems 
Lie  scatter'd  in  his  ruinous  path.  — 

His  bloodhounds  he  adorns  with  gems 
Torn  from  the  violated  necks 

Of  many  a  young  and  loved  Sultana ; 

Maidens,  within  their  pure  Zenana, 

Priests  in  the  very  fane  he  slaughters, 
And  chokes  up  with  the  glitt'ring  wrecks 

Of  golden  shrines  the  sacred  waters  ! 


Downward  the  Peri  turns  her  gaze, 
And,  through  the  war-field's  bloody  haze 
Beholds  a  youthful  warrior  stt  od, 

Alone  beside  his  native  river,  — 
The  red  blade  broken  in  his  hand, 

And  the  last  arrow  in  his  quiver. 
"  Live,"  said  the  Conq'rer,  "  live  to  share 
The  trophies  and  the  crowns  I  bear ! " 
Silent  that  youthful  warrior  stood  — 
Silent  he  pointed  to  the  flood 
All  crimson  with  his  country's  blood, 
Then  seLt  his  last  remaining  dart 
For  answer,  to  th'  Invader's  heart 


False  flew  the  shaft,  though  pointea  well 
The  Tyrant  lived,  the  Hero  fell !  — 


00  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Yet  mark'd  the  Peri  where  he  lay, 
And,  when  the  rush  of  war  was  past, 

Swiftly  descending  on  a  ray 

Of  morning  light,  she  caught  the  last  — 

Last  glorious  drop  his  heart  had  shed, 

Before  its  free-born  spirit  fled  !  " 

"Be  this,"  she  cried,  as  she  wing'd  her  flight, 
"  My  welcome  gift  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 
Though  foul  are  the  drops  that  oft  distil 

On  the  field  of  warfare,  blood  like  this, 

For  Liberty  shed,  so  holy  is, 
It  would  not  stain  the  purest  rill, 

That  sparkles  among  the  Bowers  of  Bliss ! 
Oh,  if  there  be,  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
A  boon,  an  offering  Heav'n  holds  dear, 
'T  is  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  in  her  cause 

"  Sweet,"  said  the  Angel,  as  she  gave 

The  gift  into  his  radiant  hand, 
"  Sweet  is  our  welcome  of  the  Brave 

Who  die  thus  for  their  native  Land.  — 
But  see  —  alas !  — the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not  —  holier  far 
Than  ev'n  this  drop  the  boon  must  be 
That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heav'n  for  thee ! w 

Her  first  fond  hope  of  Eden  blighted, 
Now  among  Afric's  lunar  Mountains, 

Far  to  the  South,  the  Peri  lighted ; 

And  sleek'd  her  plumage  at  the  fountains 

Of  that  Egyptian  tide  —  whose  birth 

Is  hidden  from  the  sons  of  earth 


LA.LLA     ROOKH.  101 

Deep  in  those  solitary  woods 
Where  oft  the  Genii  of  the  Floods 
Dance  round  the  cradle  of  their  Nile, 
And  hail  the  new-born  Giant's  smile. 
Thence  over  Egypt's  palmy  groves, 

Her  grots,  and  sepulchres  of  Kings, 
The  exiled  Spirit  sighing  roves  ; 
And  now  hangs  listening  to  the  doves 
In  warm  Rosetta's  vale — now  loves 

To  M-atch  the  moonlight  on  the  wings 
Of  the  white  pelicans  that  break 
The  azure  calm  of  Moeris'  Lake. 
'T  was  a  fair  scene  —  a  Land  more  bright 

Never  did  mortal  eye  behold  ! 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  saw  this  night 

Those  valleys  and  their  fruits  of  gold 
Basking  in  Heav'n's  serenest  light ;  — 
Those  groups  of  lovely  date-trees  bending 

Languidly  their 
Like  youthful  maids,  when  sleep  descending 

Warns  them  to  -  beds  ;  — 

Those  virgin  lilies,  all  the  night 

Bathing  their  beauties  in  the  lake 
That  they  may  rise  more  fresh  and  bright, 

When  their  beloved  Sun  s  awake  ;  — 
Tiiose  ruin'd  slrrines  and  tow'rs  that  seem 
The  relics  of  a  splendid  dream; 

Amid  whose  fairy  loneliness 
Naught  but  the  lapwing's  cry  is  heard, 
Naught  seen  but  (when  the  shadows,  flitting 
Fast  from  the  moon,  unsheath  its  gleam) 
Some  p'uple-wing'd  Sultanna  sitting 

Upon  a  column,  motionless 
And  elitt'rine  like  an  Idol  bird .  — 


02  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Who  could  have  thought,  that  there,  ev'n  there. 
Amid  those  scenes  so  still  and  fair, 

The  Demon  of  the  Plague  hath  cast 

From  his  hot  wing  a  deadlier  blast, 
More  mortal  far  than  ever  came 
From  the  red  Desert's  sands  of  flame  ! 
So  quick,  that  ev'ry  living  thing 
Of  human  shape,  touch'd  by  his  wing, 

Like  plants,  where  the  Simoon  hath  pass'd. 
At  once  falls  black  and  withering ! 
The  sun  went  down  on  many  a  brow 

Which,  full  of  bloom  and  freshness  then, 
Is  rankling  in  the  pest-house  now, 

And  ne'er  will  feel  that  sun  again. 
And,  oh !  to  see  th'  unburied  heaps 
On  which  the  lonely  moonlight  sleeps  — 
The  very  vultures  turn  away, 
And  sicken  at  so  foul  a  prey  ! 
Only  the  fierce  hyana  stalks 
Throughout  the  city's  desolate  walks 
At  midnight,  and  his  carnage  plies :  — 

Woe  to  the  half-dead  wretch,  who  meets 
The  glaring  of  those  large  blue  eyes 

Amid  the  darkness  of  tire  streets  ! 

"  Poor  race  of  men !  "  said  the  pitying  Spirit, 
"  Dearly  ye  pay  for  your  primal  Fall  — 

Some  flow're^s  of  Eden  ye  still  inherit, 

But  the  trail  of  the  Serpent  is  over  them  all   * 

She  wept  —  the  air  grew  pure  and  clear 
Around  her,  as  the  bright  drops  ran ; 

For  there  's  a  magic  in  each  tear, 
Such  kindly  Spirits  weep  for  y^an  I 


LALLA    ROOKII. 


103 


Just  then  beneath  some  orange  trees, 
Whose  fruit  and  blossoms  in  the  breeze 
Were  wantoning  together,  free, 
Like  age  at  play  with  infancy  — 
Beneath  that  fresh  and  springing  bower, 

Close  by  the  Lake,  she  heard  the  moan 
Of  one  who,  at  this  silent  hour, 

Had  thither  stol'n  to  die  alone. 
One  who  in  life  where'er  he  moved, 

Drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  many  ; 
Yet  now,  as  though  he  ne'er  were  loved, 

Dies  here  unseen,  unwept  by  any  ! 
None  to  watch  near  him  —  none  to  slake 

The  fire  that  in  his  bosom  lies, 
With  ev'n  a  sprinkle  from  that  lake, 

Which  shines  so  cool  before  his  eyes. 

No  voice,  well  known  through  many  a  day 

To  speak  the  last,  the  parting  word, 
Which,  when  all  other  sounds  decay, 

Is  still  like  distant  music  heard  ;  — 
That  tender  farewell  on  the  shore 
Of  this  rude  world,  when  all  is  o'er, 
Which  cheers  the  spirit,  ere  its  bark 
Puts  off  into  the  miknown  Dark- 


Deserted  youth !  one  thought  alone 

Shed  joy  around  his  soul  in  death  — 
That  she,  whom  he  for  years  had  known, 
And  loved,  and  might  have  call'd  his  own, 

Was  safe  from  this  foul  midnight's  breath,  • 
Safe  in  her  father's  princely  halls, 
Where  the  cool  airs  from  fountain  falls. 
Freshly  perfumed  by  many  a  brand 


104  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Of  the  sweet  wood  from  India's  land, 
Were  pure  as  she  whose  brow  they  fann'd. 


But  see  —  who  yonder  comes  by  stealth, 

This  melancholy  bow'r  to  seek, 
Like  a  young  envoy,  sent  by  Health, 

With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheek  ? 
T  is  she  —  far  off,  through  moonlight  dim, 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride, 
She,  who  would  rather  die  with  him, 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside  !  — 
Her  arms  are  round  her  lover  now, 

His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow, 

In  the  cool  lake  her  loosen'd  tresses. 
Ah !  once,  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come,  when  he  should  shrink 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace, 

Those  gentle  arms,  that  were  to  him 
Holy  as  is  the  cradling  place 

Of  Eden's  infant  cherubim  ! 
And  now  he  yields  —  now  turns  away 
Shudd'ring  as  if  the  venom  lay 
All  in  those  proffer'd  lips  alone  — 
Those  lips  that,  then  so  fearless  grown, 
Never  until  that  instant  came 
Near  his  unmask'd  or  without  shame. 
"  Oh  !  let  me  only  breathe  the  air, 

The  blessed  air,  that 's  breathed  by  thee, 
And,  whether  on  its  wings  it  bear 

Healing  or  death,  't  is  sweet  to  me ! 
There  —  drink  my  tears,  while  yet  tliey  fall  - 

Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  were  balm, 


LALLA     E.OOHH.  105 

And,  well  thou  know'st,  I  'd  shed  it  all, 

To  give  thy  brow  one  minute's  calm. 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me  that  dear  face  — 

Am  I  not  thine  —  thy  own  loved  bride  •  -» 
The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place 

In  life  or  death  is  by  thy  side  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  she,  whose  only  light, 

In  this  dim  world,  from  thee  hath  shone, 
Could  bear  the  long,  the  cheerless  nignt, 

That  must  be  hers  when  thou  art  gone  ? 
That  I  can  live,  and  let  thee  go, 
Who  art  my  life  itself?  —  No,  no  — 
When  the  stem  dies  the  leaf  that  grew 
Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too  ! 
Then  turn  to  me,  my  own  love,  turn, 
Before,  like  thee,  I  fide  and  burn  ; 
Cling  to  these  yet  cool  lips,  and  share 
The  last  pure  life  that  lingers  there  !  " 
She  fails  —  she  sinks  —  as  dies  the  lamp 
In  enamel  airs,  or  cavern-damp, 
So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 
Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes. 
One  struggle  —  and  his  pain  is  past  — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living ! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives,  one  last, 

Long  kiss,  which  she  expires  in  giving ! 


u  Sleep,"  said  the  Peri,  as  softly  she  stole 
The  farewell  sigh  of  that  vanishing  soul, 
As  true  as  e'er  warm'd  a  woman's  breast  — 
"  Sleep  on,  in  visions  of  odor  rest, 
In  balmier  airs  than  ever  yet  stirr'd 
Th'  encharted  pile  of  that  lonely  bird. 


06  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Who  sings  at  the  last  his  own  death-lay, 
And  in  music  and  perfume  dies  away !  " 
Thus  saying,  from  her  lips  she  spread 

Unearthly  breathings  tlirough  the  place, 
And  shook  her  sparkling  wreath,  aiyl  shed 

Such  lustre  o'er  each  paly  face, 
That  like  two  lovely  saints  they  seem'd, 

Upon  the  eve  of  doomsday  taken 
From  their  dim  graves,  in  odor  sleeping ; 

While  that  benevolent  Peri  beam'd 
Like  their  good  angel,  calmly  keeping 

Watch  o'er  them  till  their  souls  should  waken. 

But  morn  is  blushing  in  the  sky ; 

Again  the  Peri  soars  above, 
Bearing  to  Heav'n  that  precious  sigh 

Of  pure,  self-sacrificing  love. 
High  throbb'd  her  heart,  with  hope  elate, 

Tli'  Elysian  palm  she  soon  shall  win, 
For  the  bright  Spirit  at  the  gate 

Smiled  as  she  gave  that  offering  in ; 
And  she  already  hears  the  trees 

Of  Eden,  with  their  crystal  bells 
Ringing  in  that  ambrosial  breeze 

That  from  the  throne  of  Alia  swells  ; 
And  she  can  see  the  starry  bowls 

That  lie  around  that  lucid  lake, 
Upon  whose  banks  admitted  Souls 

Their  first  sweet  draught  of  glory  take ! 

But,  ah  !  ev'n  Peri's  hopes  are  vain  — 
Again  the  fates  forbade,  again 
Th'  immortal  barrier  closed  —  "  Not  yet,1* 
The  Angel  said,  as,  with  regret, 


LALLA    ROOKH.  107 

He  shut  from  her  that  glimpse  of  glory  — 
"  True  was  the  maiden,  and  her  story, 
Written  in  light  o'er  Alla's  head, 
By  seraph  eyes  shall  long  be  read. 
But  Peri,  see  —  the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not  —  holier  far 
Than  ev'n  this  sigh  the  boon  must  be 
That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heav'n  for  thee. 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  tow'rs, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flow'rs, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet 

To  one,  who  look'd  from  upper  air 

O'er  all  tli'  enchanted  regions  there, 

How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 

The  life,  the  sparkling  from  below  ■ 

Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks, 

Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, 

More  golden  where  the  sun-light  falls ;  — ■ 

Gay  lizards,  glitt'ring  on  the  walls 

Of  ruin'd  shrines,  busy  and  bright 

As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 

And  yet,  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 

Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 

With  their  rich  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 

Of  the  warm  West,  —  as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 


LALLA     ROOEH. 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  s^an 
Th'  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan. 
And  then  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 
Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 
Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting  through  the  flow'ry  valen ; 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales. 

But  naught  can  charm  the  luckless  Pen ; 
Her  soul  is  sad  —  her  wings  are  weary  — 
Joyless  she  sees  the  Sun  look  down 
On  that  great  Temple,  once  his  own, 
Whose  lonely  columns  stand  sublime, 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high, 
Like,  dials,  which  the  wizard,  Time, 

Had  raised  to  count  his  ages  by ! 

Yet  haply  there  may  lie  conceal'd 
Beneath  those  Chambers  of  the  Sun, 

Some  amulet  of  gems,  anneal'd 

In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  seal'd 
With  the  great  name  of  Solomon, 
Which,  spell'd  by  her  illumined  eyes, 

May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  mooD 

In  earth  or  ocean,  lies  the  boon, 

The  charm,  that  can  restore  so  soon 
An  erring  Spirit  to  the  skies. 

Oheer'd  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thither;- 
Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 
Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 

In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither ;  — 


L.4  LLA    ROOKH.  109 

When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play 
Among  the  rosy  wild-flow'rs  singing. 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
The  beautiful  blue  damsel-flies, 
That  flutter'd  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Like  winged  flow'rs  or  flying  gems :  — 
And,  near  the  boy,  who  tired  with  play 
Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay, 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount 

Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turn'd 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burn'd 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that,  — 
Sullenly  fierce  —  a  mixture  dire, 
Like  th-nder-clouds  of  gloom  and  fire; 
In  whic>  die  Peri's  eye  could' read 
Dark  taiop  of  many  a  ruthless  deed  ; 
The  ruin  J  maid  —  the  shrine  profaned  — 
Oaths  bro^f-n  —  and  the  threshold  stain'd 
With  blood  jf  guests ! — there  written,  all. 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  deno_r>cing  Angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  itam  nit  again. 


Vet  tranquil  now  that  m&D  :>f  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  cime 
Soften'd  his  spirit)  look'd  and  l»y 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play .  — - 


]]0  LaLLA    rookh. 

Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chancfl 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze, 
As  torches,  that  have  burn'd  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

EncouBter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But,  hark  !  the  vesper  call  to  pray'r, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flow'rs,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 
Lisping  th'  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hand*  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flow'ry  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again. 
Oh  !  'twas  a  sight  —  that  Ileav'n  — that  child  — 
A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
Ev'n  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by ! 

And  how  felt  fie,  the  wretched  Man 
Reclining  there  —  while  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace. 


LALLA     ROOKH  111 

"There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  m  mild, 
Heart-humbled  tones  —  "  thou  blessed  child  ! 
When,  young,  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 
I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee  —  but  now  "  — 
He  hung  his  head  —  each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept  —  he  wept 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence  ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 
"There  'a  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  dowa 

from  the  moon 
Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  pow'r, 
So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  ev'n  in  the  hour 
That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies  ! 
Oh,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin, 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 
One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispell'd  them  all ! B 

And  now  —  behold  him  kneeling  there 
By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  pray'r, 
While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 
The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one, 
And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  Heav'i 
The  triumph  of  a  Soul  Forgiv'n  ! 

'T  was  when  the  golden  orb  had  set, 
While  oil  thoir  knees  they  linger'd  yet, 


112  LALLA     ROOKH. 

There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star, 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dew'd  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam  — 
But  well  tli'  enraptured  Peri  knew 
'T  was  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
Prom  Heav'ns  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
The  harbinger  of  glory  near ! 

"  Joy,  joy  for  ever !  my  task  is  done  — 
The  gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heav'n  is  wen! 
Oh  !  am  I  not  happy  ?  I  am,  I  am  — 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden !  how  dark  and  sad 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam, 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad 

"  Farewell,  ye  odors  of  Earth,  that  die 
Passing  away  like  a  lover's  sigh ;  — 
My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree, 
Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  Eternity ! 

"  Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 

In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief;  — 
Oil !  what  are  the  brightest  that  e'er  have  blowj^ 
To  the  lotc-rree,  springing  by  Alla's  throne, 
Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf. 
Joy,  joy  for  ever !  —  my  task  is  done  — 
The  Gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heav';}  is  woe ' 


113 


Awn  this,"  said  the  Groat  Chamberlain,  "  is  poetry 
iiiis  flimsy  manufacture  of  the  brain,  which,  in  com- 
parison with  the  lofty  and  durable  monuments  of  genius, 
is  as  the  gold  filigree-work  of  Zamara  beside  the  eternal 
architecture  of  Egypt ! "  After  this  gorgeous  sentence, 
which,  with  a  few  more  of  the  same  kind,  Fadladeen 
kept  by  him  for  rare  and  important  occasions,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  anatomy  of  the  short  poem  just  recited. 
The  lax  and  easy  kind  of  metre  in  which  it  was  written 
ought  to  be  denounced,  he  said,  as  one  of  the  leading 
causes  of  the  alanaing  growth  of  poetry  in  our  times. 
If  some  check  were  not  given  to  this  lawless  facility, 
we  should  soon  be  overrun  by  a  race  of  bards  as 
numerous  and  as  shallow  as  the  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  Streams  of  Basra.  They  who  succeeded  u. 
this  style  deserved  chastisement  for  their  very  success ; 
—  as  warriors  have  been  punished,  even  after  gaining 
a  victory,  because  they  had  taken  the  liberty  of  gaining 
it  in  an  irregular  or  unestabiished  manner.  What, 
then,  was  to  be  said  to  those  who  failed  ?  to  those  who 
presumed,  as  in  the  present  lamentable  instance,  to 
imitate  the  license  and  ease  of  the  bolder  sons  of  song, 
Tvithont  any  of  that  grace  or  vigor  which  gave  a  dignity 
even  to  negligence ;  —  who,  like  them,  flung  the  jereed 
carelessly,  but  not,  like  them,  to  the  mark ;  —  "  and 
who,"  said  he,  raising  his  voice  to  excite  a  proper 
degree  of  wakefulness  in  his  hearers, "  contrive  to  appear 
heavy  and  constrained  in  the  midst  of  all  the  latitude 
they  allow  themselves,  like  one  of  those  young  pagans 
that   dance   before    the   Princess,   who    ia    ingenious 


114  LALLA    ROOKH. 

unough  to  move  as  if  her  limbs  were  fettered,  in  a  pan 
of  the  lightest  and  loosest  drawers  of  Masulipatam  ! " 

It  was  but  little  suitable,  he  continued,  to  the  grave 
march  of  criticism  to  follow  this  fantastical  Peri,  of 
whom  they  had  just  heard,  through  all  her  flights;  but 
lie  could  not  help  adverting  to  the  puerile  conceitednesa 
of  the  Three  Gifts  which  she  is  supposed  to  carry  io 
the  skies,  —  a  drop  of  blood,  forsooth,  a  sigh,  and  a 
tear!  How  the  first  of  these  articles  was  delivered 
into  the  Angel's  "  radiant  hand  "  he  professed  himself 
at  a  loss  to  discover ;  and  as  to  the  safe  carriage  of  the 
sigh,  and  the  tear,  such  Peris  and  such  poets  were 
beings  by  far  too  incomprehensible  for  him  even  to 
guess  how  they  managed  such  matters.  "  But,  in 
short,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a  waste  of  time  and  patience  to 
dwell  longer  upon  a  thing  so  incurably  frivolous, — 
puny  even  among  its  own  puny  race,  and  such  as  only 
the  Banyan  Hospital  for  Sick  Insects  should  undertake." 

In  vain  did  Lalla  Rookh  try  to  soften  this  inexorable 
critic  ;  in  vain  did  she  resort  to  her  most  eloquent  com- 
mon-places, —  reminding  him  that  poets  were  a  timid 
and  sensitive  race,  whose  sweetness  was  not  to  be 
drawn  forth,  like  that  of  the  fragrant  grass  near  the 
Ganges,  by  crushing  and  trampling  upon  them  ;  —  that 
severity  often  extinguished  every  chance  of  the  perfec- 
tion which  it  demanded  ;  and  that,  after  all,  perfection 
was  like  the  Mountain  of  the  Talisman,  —  no  one  had 
ever  yet  reached  its  summit.  Neither  these  gentle 
axioms,  nor  the  still  gentler  looks  with  which  they  were 
inculcated,  could  lower  for  one  instant  the  elevation 
of  Fadladeen's  eyebrows,  or  charm  him  into  any  thing 
like  encouragement,  or  even  toleration,  of  her  poet. 
Toleration,  indeed,  was  not  among  the  weaknesses  of 
Kadladeen :  —  he  carried  the  same  spirit  into  mattera 


LALLA     R00KH.  115 

of  poetry  and  of  religion,  and,  though  little  versed  in 
the  beauties  and  sublimities  of  either,  was  a  perfect 
master  of  the  art  of  persecution  in  both.  His  zeal  waa 
the  same,  too,  in  either  pursuit ;  whether  the  game 
before  him  was  pagans  or  poetasters,  —  worshippers 
of  cows,  or  writers  of  epics. 

They  had  now  arrived  at  the  splendid  city  of  Lahore, 
whose  mausoleums  and  shrines,  magnificent  and  num- 
berless, where  Death  appeared  to  share  equal  honors 
with  Heaven,  would  have  powerfully  affected  the  heart 
and  imagination  of  Lalla  Rookh,  if  feelings  more  of 
this  earth  had  not  taken  entire  possession  of  her  already. 
She  was  here  met  by  messengers,  dispatched  from 
Cashmere,  who  informed  her  that  the  King  had  arrived 
in  the  Valley,  and  was  himself  superintending  the 
sumptuous  preparations  that  were  then  making  in  the 
Saloons  of  the  Shalimar  for  her  reception.  The  chill 
she  felt  on  receiving  this  intelligence,  —  which  to  a 
bride  whose  heart  was  free  and  light  would  have 
brought  only  images  of  affection  and  pleasure,  —  con- 
vinced her  that  her  peace  was  gone  for  ever,  and  that 
she  was  in  love,  irretrievably  in  love,  with  young  Fer- 
amorz.  The  veil  had  fallen  off  in  which  this  passion 
at  first  disguises  itself,  and  to  know  that  she  loved  waa 
now  as  painful  as  to  love  witfiout  knowing  it  had  been 
delicious.  Feramorz,  too,  —  what  misery  would  be  his, 
if  the  sweet  hours  of  intercourse  so  imprudently 
allowed  them  should  have  stolen  into  his  heart  the 
same  fatal  fascination  as  into  hers  ;  —  if,  notwithstand- 
ing her  rank,  and  the  modest  homage  he  always  paid  to 
it,  even  he  should  have  yielded  to  the  influence  of  those 
long  and  happy  interviews,  where  music,  poetry,  the 
delightful  scenes  of  nature,  —  all  had  tended  to  bring 
their  hearts  close  together,  and  to  waken  by  ever* 


116  LALLA     ROOKH. 

means  that  tx>  ready  passion,  which  often,  like  tho 
young  of  tlic  desert-bird,  is  warmed  into  life  by  the 
eyes  alone !  She  saw  but  one  way  to  preserve  herself 
from  being  culpable  as  well  as  unhappy,  and  this,  how- 
ever painful,  she  resolved  to  adopt.  Feramorz  must  no 
more  be  admitted  to  her  presence.  To  have  strayed 
so  far  into  the  dangerous  labyrinth  was  wrong,  but  to 
linger  in  it,  while  the  clew  was  yet  in  her  hand,  would 
be  criminal.  Though  the  heart  she  had  to  offer  to  the 
King  of  Bncharia  might  be  cold  and  broken,  it  should 
at  least  be  pure ;  and  she  must  only  endeavor  to  forget 
the  short  dream  of  happiness  she  had  enjoyed,  —  like 
that  Arabian  shepherd,  who,  in  wandering  into  the 
wilderness,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Gardens  of  Iram, 
and  then  lost  them  again  for  ever ! 

The  arrival  of  the  young  Bride  at  Lahore  was  cel- 
ebrated in  the  most  enthusiastic  manner.  The  Rajas 
and  Omras  in  her  train,  who  had  kept  at  a  certain  dis- 
tance during  the  journey,  and  never  encamped  nearer 
to  the  Princess  than  was  strictly  necessary  for  her  safe- 
guard, here  rode  in  splendid  cavalcade  through  the 
city,  and  distributed  the  most  costly  presents  to  the 
crowd.  Engines  were  erected  in  all  the  squares,  wrl  Jch 
cast  forth  showers  of  confectionary  among  the  people ; 
while  the  artisans,  in  chariots  adorned  with  tinsel  and 
flying  streamers,  exhibited  the  badges  of  their  respec- 
tive trades  through  the  streets.  Such  brilliant  displays 
of  life  and  pageantry  among  the  palaces,  and  domes, 
and  gilded  minarets  of  Lahore,  made  the  city  altogether 
like  a  place  of  enchantment ;  —  particularly  on  the  day 
when  Lalla  Rookh  set  out  again  upon  her  journey 
when  she  was  accompanied  to  the  gate  by  all  the  fair 
est  and  richest  of  the  nobility,  and  rode  along  between 
ranks  of  beautiful  boys  and  girls,  who  kept  waving  ovei 


LALLA    ROOKH.  11^ 

their  heads  plates  of  gold  and  silver  flowers,  and  then 
threw  them  around  to  be  gathered  by  the  populace. 

For  many  days  after  their  departure  from  Lahore,  a 
considerable  degree  of  gloom  hung  over  the  whole 
party  Lalla  Rookl ,  who  had  intended  to  make  illness 
her  excuse  for  not  admitting  the  young  minstrel  as 
usual,  to  the  pavilion,  soon  found  that  to  feign  indis- 
position was  unnecessary ;  —  Fadladeen  felt  the  loss 
of  the  good  road  they  had  hitherto  travelled,  and  was 
very  near  cursing  Jehan-Guire  (of  blessed  memory ! ) 
for  not  having  continued  his  delectable  alley  of  trees, 
at  least  as  far  as  the  mountains  of  Cashmere ;  —  while 
the  Ladies,  who  had  nothing  now  to  do  all  day  but  to 
be  fanned  by  peacocks'  feathers  and  listen  to  Fadladeen, 
seemed  heartily  weary  of  the  life  they  led,  and,  in  spite 
of  all  the  Great  Chamberlain's  criticisms,  were  so  taste- 
less as  to  wish  for  the  poet  again.  One  evening,  aa 
they  were  proceeding  to  their  place  of  rest  for  the 
night,  the  Princess,  who,  for  the  freer  enjoyment  of  the 
air,  had  mounted  her  favorite  Arabian  palfrey,  in  pass- 
ing by  a  small  grove  heard  the  notes  of  a  lute  from 
within  its  leaves,  and  a  voice,  which  she  but  too  well 
knew,  singing  the  following  words  :  — 

Tell  me  not  of  joys  above, 
If  that  world  can  give  no  bliss, 

Truer,  happier  than  the  Love 
Which  enslaves  our  souls  in  this. 


Tell  me  not  of  Houris'  eyes  ;   - 
Far  from  me  their  dangerous  glow, 

If  those  looks  that  light  the  skies 
Wound  like  some  that  burn  below 


'18  LALLA     XiOOKH. 

Who,  that  feels  what  Love  is  here, 
All  its  falsehood  —  all  its  pain  — 

Would,  for  ev'n  Elysium's  sphere, 
Risk  the  fatal  dream  again  ? 

Who,  that  midst  a  desert's  heat 

Sees  the  waters  fade  away, 
Would  not  rather  die  than  meet 

Streams  again  as  false  as  they  ? 

The  tone  of  melancholy  defiance  in  which  these  wurd<3 
were  uttered,  went  to  Lalla  Rookh's  heart ;  —  and,  as 
she  reluctantly  rode  on,  she  could  not  help  feeling  it  to 
be  a  sad  but  still  sweet  certainty,  that  Feramorz  was  to 
the  full  as  enamored  and  miserable  as  herself. 

The  place  where  they  encamped  that  evening  was 
the  first  delightful  spot  they  had  come  to  since  they 
left  Lahore.  On  one  side  of  them  was  a  grove  full  of 
small  Hindoo  temples,  and  planted  with  the  most  grace- 
ful trees  of  the  East ;  where  the  tamarind,  the  cassia, 
and  the  silken  plantains  of  Ceylon  were  mingled  in 
rich  contrast  with  the  high  fan-like  foliage  of  the  Pal- 
myra, —  that  favorite  tree  of  the  luxurious  bird  that 
lights  up  the  chambers  of  its  nest  with  fire-flies.  In 
tne  middle  of  the  lawn  where  the  pavilion  stood  there 
was  a  tank  surrounded  by  small  mango-trees,  on  the 
clear  cold  waters  of  which  floated  multitudes  of  the 
beautiful  red  lotus ;  while  at  a  distance  stood  the  ruins 
of  a  strange  and  awful  looking  tower,  which  seemed 
old  enough  to  have  been  the  temple  of  some  religion 
no  longer  known,  and  which  spoke  the  voice  of  desola- 
tion in  the  midst  of  all  that  bloom  and  loveliness. 
This  singular  ruin  excited  the  wonder  and  conjectures 
of  all.     Lalla  Rookh  guessed  in  vain,  and  the  all  -pre- 


fcALLA     KOOKH.  Jl{1 

tending  Fadladeen,  who  had  never  I  ill  this  journey 
been  beyond  the  precincts  of  Delhi,  was  proceeding 
most  learnedly  to  show  that  he  know  nothing  whatever 
about  the  matter,  when  one  of  the  Ladies  suggested 
that  perhaps  Peramorz  could  satisfy  their  curiosity. 
They  were  now  approaching  his  native  mountains,  and 
:his  tower  might  perhaps  be  a  relic  of  some  of  those 
dark  superstitions,  which  had  prevailed  in  that  country 
before  the  light  of  Islam  dawned  upon  it.  The  Cham- 
berlain, who  usually  preferred  his  oh  q  ignorance  to  the 
best  knowledge  that  any  one  rise  could  give  him,  was 
by  no  means  pleased  with  this  officious  reference;  and 
the  Princess,  too,  was  about  to  interpose  a  faint  word 
of  objection,  but,  before  either  o\'  them  could  S] 
slave  was  dispatched  tor  Peramorz,  who,  in  a  very  few 
minutes,  made  his  appearance  before  them  —  looking 
so  -pale  and  unhappy  in  Lalla  Rookh's  eyes,  that  she 
repented  already  of  her  cruelty  in  having  so 
excluded  him. 

That  venerable  tower,  he  told  them,  was  the  remains 
of  an  ancient  Fire-Temple,  built  by  those  Ghebers  or 
Persians  oi'  the  old  religion,  who.  many  hundred  years 
since,  had  tied  hither  from  their  Arab  conquerors,  pre- 
ferring liberty  and  their  altars  in  a  foreign  land  to  the 
alternative  of  apostacy  or  persecution  in  their  own.  It 
was  impossible,  he  added,  not  to  feel  interested  in  the 
many  glorious  but  unsuccessful  struggles,  which  had 
iiccn  made  by  these  original  natives  i^\'  Persia  to  cast 
otV  the  yoke  o\'  their  bigoted  conquerors.  Like  their 
own  Fire  in  the  Burning  Field  at  Bakou,  when  sup- 
pressed in  one  place,  they  had  but  broken  out  with  fresh 
flame  in  another:  and,  as  a  native  of  Cashmere,  of  that 
fair  and  Holy  Valley,  which  had  in  tin-  same  manner 
prey  of  strangers,  and  seen  her  ancient 


120  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Bhrines  and  native  princes  swept  away  before  the  march 
of  her  intolerant  invaders,  he  felt  a  sympathy,  he  owned, 
■with  the  sufferings  of  the  persecuted  Ghebers,  which 
every  monument  like  this  before  them  but  tended  more 
powerfully  to  awaken. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Feramorz  had  ever  ventured 
jpon  so  mush  prose,  before  Fadladeen,  and  it  may  easily 
be  conceived  what  effect  such  prose  as  this  must  have 
produced  upon  that  most  orthodox  and  most  pagan- 
hating  personage.  He  sat  for  some  minutes  aghast, 
ejaculating  only  at  intervals,  "  Bigoted  conquerors  !  — 
sympathy  with  Fire-worshippers  !  "  —  while  Feramorz, 
happy  to  take  advantage  of  this  almost  speechless  hor- 
ror of  the  Chamberlain,  proceeded  to  say  that  he  knew 
a  melancholy  story,  connected  with  the  events  of  one 
of  those  struggles  of  the  brave  Fire-worshippers  against 
their  Arab  masters,  which,  if  the  evening  was  not  too 
far  advanced,  he  should  have  much  pleasure  in  being 
allowed  to  relate  to  the  Princess.  It  was  impossible 
for  Lalla  Rookh  to  refuse ;  —  he  had  never  before 
looked  half  so  animated ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  the 
Holy  Valley  his  eyes  had  sparkled,  she  thought,  like 
the  talismanic  characters  on  the  cimeter  of  Solomon. 
Her  consent  was  therefore  most  readily  granted ;  and 
while  Fadladeen  sat  in  unspeakable  dismay,  expecting 
treason  and  abomination  in  every  line,  the  poet  thus 
began  his  story  of  the  Fire-worshippers :  — 


121 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPEERS. 

T  is  moonlight  over  Oman's  Sea ; 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  palmy  isles 
Bask  in  the  night-beam  beauteously, 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles. 
'T  is  moonlight  in  Harmozia's  walls, 
And  through  her  Emir's  porphyry  halls, 
Where,  some  hours  since,  was  heard  the  swel 
Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel 
Bidding  the  bright-eyed  sun  farewell ;  — 
The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's  nest, 
Or  the  light  touch  of  lovers'  lutes, 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest 
All  hush'd — there  's  not  a  breeze  in  motion ; 
The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean. 
If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come, 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven ; 
The  wind-tower  on  the  Emir's  dome 

Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 

Ev'n  he,  that  tyrant  Arab,  sleeps 

Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps ; 

While  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes, 

And  falchions  from  unnumber'd  sheaths 

Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 

His  race  hath  brought  on  Iran's  name. 

Hard,  heartless  Chief,  unmoved  alike 

Mid  eyes  that  weep,  and  swords  that  strike ;  — 
12 


122  IAXLA    ROOKH. 

One  of  that  saintly,  murd'rous  brood, 

To  carnage  and  the  Koran  giv'n, 
Who  think  through  unbelievers'  blood 

Lies  their  directest  path  to  heav'n ;  — 
One,  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd, 
To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

Engraven  on  his  reeking  sword  ;  — 
Nay,  who  can  coolly  note  the  line, 
The  letter  of  those  words  divine, 
To  which  his  blade,  with  searching-  art, 
Had  sunk  into  its  victim's  heart ! 

Jrst  Alia !  what  must  be  thy  look, 

When  such  a  wretch  before  thee  stands 
Unblushing,  with  thy  Sacred  Book,  — 

Turning  the  leaves  with  blood-stain'd  ha  ids, 
And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 
His  creed  of  lust,  aud  hate,  and  crime  ;  — 
Ev'n  as  those  bees  of  Trebizond, 

Which,  from  the  sunniest  flow'rs  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round, 

Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad. 

Never  did  fierce  Arabia  send 

A  satrap  forth  more  direly  great ; 
Never  was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 

Beneath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 
Her  throne  had  fall'n  —  her  pride  was  crush'd    - 
Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd, 
In  their  own  land,  —  no  more  their  own,  — 
To  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  throne. 
Her  tow'rs,  where  Mithra  once  had  burn'd, 
To  Moslem  shrines  —  oh  shame !  —  were  turn'd, 


LALLA    ROOKH.  123 

Where  slaves,  converted  by  the  sword, 

Their  mean,  apostate  worship  pour'd, 

And  cursed  the  faith  their  sires  adored. 

Yet  has  she  hearts,  mid  all  this  ill. 

O'er  all  this  wreck  high  buoyant  still 

With  hope  and  vengeance ;  —  hearts  that  yet  -* 

Like  gems,  in  darkness,  issuing  rays 
They  've  treasured  from  the  sun  that's  set, — 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days  ! 
And  swords  she  hath,  nor  weak  nor  slow 

To  second  all  such  hearts  can  dare  ; 
As  he  shall  know,  well,  dearly  know, 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  lux'ry  there, 
Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 
Becahn'd  'v  Heav'n's  approving  ray. 
Sleep  on  —  for  purer  eyes  than  thine 
Those  waves  are  hush'd,  those  plan  its  shine , 
Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  unmoved 

By  the  white  moonbeam's  dazzing  power ;  — 
None  but  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Should  be  awake  at  this  sweet  hour. 


And  see  —  where,  high  above  those  rocks 
That  o'er  the  deep  their  shadows  fling, 
Yon  turret  stands ;  —  where  ebon  locks, 
As  glossy  as  a  heron's  wing 
Upon  the  turban  of  a  king, 
Hang  from  the  lattice,  long  and  wild,  — 
'T  is  she,  that  Emir's  blooming  child, 
All  truth,  and  tenderness,  and  grace, 
Though  born  of  such  ungentle  race  ;  — 
An  image  of  Youth's  radiant  Fountain 
Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain ! 


IJJJ  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Oh  -what"  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  Beauty  curtain'd  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye,  — 

The  flow'r  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea, 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  most  chaste  obscurity. 
So,  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 
Like  holy  myst'ries,  lain  enshrined. 
And  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er .  -■ 
Like  those  who,  all  at  once,  discover 

In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 
And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 
No  lip  had  ever  breathed  but  theirs. 


Beautiful  are  the  maids  that  glide, 

On  summer-eves,  through  Yemen's  dalea, 
And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Behind  their  litters'  roseate  veils  ; 
And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 
As  the  white  jasmine  flow'rs  they  wear, 
Hath  Yemen  and  her  blissful  clime, 

Who,  lull'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bow'r, 
Before  their  mirrors  count  the  time, 

And  grow  still  lovelier  ev'ry  hour. 
But  never  yet  hath  bride  or  maid 

In  Araby's  gay  Haram  smiled, 
Whose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 

Pofore  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 


LALLA     ROOKH.  125 

Light  as  the  angel  shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness  ;  — 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  ray 
Dark  Vice  would  turn  abash'd  away, 
Blinded  like  serpents,  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  em'rald's  virgin  blaze  ;  — 
Yet  fdl'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss, 
The  fond,  weak  tenderness  of  this : 
A  soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where,  through  some  shades  of  earthly  feeling 
Religion's  soften'd  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue, 
So  warm  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere 

Such  is  the  maid  who,  at  this  hour, 

Hath  risen  from  her  restless  sleep, 
And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bow'r, 

Watching  the  still  and  shining  deep 
Ah  !  't  was  not  thus  —  with  tearful  eye3 

And  beating  heart,  —  she  used  to  gaze 
On  the  magnificent  earth  and  skies, 

In  her  own  land,  in  happier  days. 
Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 
Among  those  rocks,  whose  rugged  irown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep  ? 
Whom  waits  she  all  this  lonely  night  ? 

Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep. 

For  man  to  scale  that  turretV>  height !  — 
11* 


126  LALLA    ROOKH. 

So  deem'd  at  least  her  thoughtful  sire, 

When  high  to  catch  the  cool  night-air 
After  the  day-beam's  with'ring  fire. 

He  built  her  bow'r  of  freshness  there, 
And  had  it  deck'd  with  costliest  skill, 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair  :  — 
Think,  reverend  dreamer  !  think  so  still. 

Nor  wake  to  learn  what  Love  can  dare  :  -« 
Love,  all-defying  Love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  trophies  won  with  ease ;  — 
Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  Danger's  precipice  ! 
Bolder  than  they,  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls  but  when  the  sea 's  at  rest, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive, 

Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water. 

Yes  —  Araby's  unrivall'd  daughter, 
Though  high  that  tow'r,  that  rock-way  rude, 

There  'a  one,  who  but  to  kiss  thy  cheek, 
Would  climb  th'  untrodden  solitude 

Of  Ararat's  tremendous  peak, 
And  think  its  steeps,  though  dark  and  dread, 
Heaven's  pathways,  if  to  thee  they  led  ! 
Ev'n  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray, 
That  lights  his  oar's  impatient  way  ; 
Ev'n  now  thou  hear'st  the  sudden  shock 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock, 
And  stretchest  down  thy  arms  of  snow, 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below ! 
Like  her  to  whom,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  bridegroom,  with  his  locks  of  light, 
Came,  in  the  flush  of  love  and  pride, 
And  scaled  the  terrace  of  his  bride ;- 


LALLA    ROOXH.  127 

When,  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring, 

And  midway  up  in  danger  cling, 

She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair, 

Exclaiming,  breathless,  "  There,  love,  there  !  ■ 

And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  that  fond  hour, 
Than  wings  the  youth  who,  fleet  and  bold, 

Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower. 
See  —  light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 

The  rock-goats  of  Arabia  clamber, 
Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps, 

And  now  is  in  the  maiden's  chamber. 


She  loves  —  but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 

Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  he  came  ;  — 
Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves, 

Some  beauteous  bird  without  a  name, 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze, 
Froai  isles  in  tli'  undiscoverM  seas, 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  day 
To  wond'ring  eyes,  and  wing  away ! 
Will  he  thus  fly  —  her  nameless  lover  ? 

Alia  forbid !  't  was  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  Kanoon, 
Alone,  at  this  same  witching  hour, 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
Gleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bow'r, 

Where  nightly  now  they  mix  their 
And  thought  some  spirit  of  the  air 
(For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  there  ?) 
Was  pausing  on  his  moonlight  wav 
To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay ' 


128  LALLA     ROOKH. 

This  fancy  ne'er  hath  left  her  mind . 

And — though,  when  terror's  swoon  lad  pass1  J, 
She  saw  a  youth,  of  mortal  kind, 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast,  — 
Yet';  often  since,  when  he  hath  spoken 
Strange,  awful  words,  —  and  gleams  have  broken 
From  his  dark  eye,  too  bright  to  bear, 

Oh  !  she  hath  fear'd  her  soul  was  giv  n 
To  some  unhallow'd  child  of  air, 
Some  erring  Spirit  cast  from  heav'n, 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old, 
Who  burn'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewilder'd  left  the  glorious  skies, 
And  lost  their  heav'n  for  woman's  eyes. 
Fond  girl !  nor  fiend  nor  angel  he 
Who  woos  thy  young  simplicity ; 
But  one  of  earth's  impassion'd  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire, 
As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  Day  God's  living  fire. 

But  quench'd  to-night  that  ardor  seems, 

And  pale  his  cheek,  and  sunk  his  brow  ;  — 
Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 

Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now: 
Aud  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 
From  which  't  was  joy  to  wake  and  weep  , 
Visions  that  will  not  be  forgot, 

But  sadden  every  waking  scene, 
Like  warning  ghosts,  that  leave  the  spot 

All  wither'd  where  they  once  have  been, 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid. 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid. 


LALLA    ROOKH.  123 

So  long  had  they  in  silenct  s  ood, 

Looking  upon  that  tranquil  tlood  — 

"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 

To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle ! 

Oft,  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 

I  've  wish'd  that  little  isle  had  wings, 

And  we,  within  its  fairy  bow'rs, 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone  ! 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold,  — 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us,  to  behold 

A  paradise  so  pure  and  lonely. 

"  Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee  ?  "  — 
Playfully  she  turn'd,  that  he  might  see 

The  passing  smile  her  cheek  put  on ; 
But  when  she  mark'd  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone ; 
And,  bursting  into  heartfelt  tears, 
"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right  — 
We  part  —  for  ever  part  —  to-night ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last  — 
'T  was  bright,  't  was  heav'nly,  but 't  is  past 
Oh  !  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I  've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flow'r, 

But  t  was  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die! 


._£ 


130  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Now  too  — the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine,  -  - 

Oh  misery !  must  I  lose  that  too  ? 
Yet  go  —  on  peril's  brink  we  meet ;  — 

Those  frightful  rocks — that  treach'rous  sea 
No,  never  come  again  —  though  sweet, 

Though  heav'n,  it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
Farewell  —  and  blessings  on  thy  way, 

Where'er  thou  goest,  beloved  stranger ! 
Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger ! " 

•'  Danger !  oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast "  — 
The  youth  exclaim'd  —  "  thou  little  know'st 
What  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nursed 
In  Danger's  paths,  has  dared  her  worst ; 
Upon  whose  ear  the  signal-word 

Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking , 
Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  sword 

His  fever'd  hand  must  grasp  in  waking. 
Danger !  —  " 

"  Say  on  —  thou  fear'st  not  then, 
And  we  may  meet  —  oft  meet  again  ?  " 

u  Oh !  look  not  so  —  beneath  the  skies 
I  now  fear  nothing  but  those  eyes. 
If  aught  on  earth  could  charm  or  force 
My  spirit  from  its  destined  course,  — 
If  aught  could  make  this  soul  forget 
The  bond  to  which  its  seal  is  set, 
'T  would  be  those  eyes  ;  —  they,  ot  ly  they 
Could  melt  that  sacred  r^a.1  away ! 


1ALLA    ROOKH.  UJ\ 

But  no  —  't  is  fixed  —  my  awful  doom 

Is  fix'd  —  on  this  side  of  the  tomb 

We  meet  no  more  ;  —  why,  why  did  Heav'n 

Mingle  two  souls  that  earth  has  riv'n, 

Has  rent  asunder  wide  as  ours  ? 

Oh,  Arab  maid,  as  soon  the  Powers 

Of  Light  and  Darkness  may  combins, 

As  I  be  link'd  with  thee  or  thine  ! 

Thy  Father " 

"  Holy  Alia  save 

His  gray  head  from  that  lightning  glanee 
Thou  know'st  him  not  —  he  loves  the  brave ; 

Nor  lives  there  under  Heav'ns  expanse 
One  who  would  prize,  would  worship  thee 
And  thy  bold  spirit,  more  than  lie. 
Oft  when,  in  childhood,  I  have  play'd 

With  the  bright  falchion  by  his  side, 
I  've  heard  him  swear  his  lisping  maid 

In  time  should  be  a  warrior's  bride. 
And  still,  whene'er  at  Haram  hours, 
I  take  him  cool  sherbets  and  flow'rs, 
He  tells  me,  when  in  playful  mood, 

A  hero  shall  my  bridegroom  be, 
Since  maids  are  best  in  battle  woo'd, 

And  won  with  shouts  of  victory  ! 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me  —  thou  alone 
Art  form'd  to  make  both  hearts  thy  own. 
Go  — join  his  sacred  ranks  — thou  know'st 

Th'  unholy  strife  these  Persians  wage :  — 
Good  Hoav'n,  that  frown  —  even  now  thou  glow's} 

With  more  than  mortal  warrior's  rage. 
Haste  to  the  camp  by  morning's  light, 
And,  when  that  sword  is  raised  in  fight, 


132  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Oh  sLll  remember,  Love  and  I 
Beneath  its  shadow  trembling  lie  ! 
One  vict'ry  o'er  those  Slaves  of  Fire, 
Those  impious  Ghebers,  whom  my  sire 
Abhors " 

"Hold,  hold  —  thy  words  are  death  —  * 

The  stranger  cried,  as  wild  he  flung 
His  mantle  back,  and  show'd  beneath 

The  Gheber  belt  that  round  him  clung.  — 
"Here,  maiden,  look  —  weep  —  blush  to  see 
All  that  thy  sire  abhors,  in  me  ! 
Yes  —  /  am  of  that  impious  race, 

Those  Slaves  of  Fire  who,  morn  and  even, 
Hail  their  Creator's  dwelling-place 

Among  the  living  lights  of  heaven : 
Yes  —  J  am  of  that  outcast  few, 
To  Iran  and  to  vengeance  true, 
Who  curse  the  hour  your  Arab's  came 
To  desolate  our  shrines  of  flame, 
And  swear,  before  God's  burning  eye, 
To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die  ! 
Thy  bigot  sire,  —  nay,  tremble  not,  — 

He  who  gave  birth  to  those  dear  eyes, 
With  me  is  sacred  as  the  spot 

From  which  our  fires  of  worship  rise  ! 
But  know  —  't  was  he  I  sought  that  night, 

When,  from  my  watch-boat  on  the  sea, 
I  caught  this  turret's  glimm'ring  light, 

And  up  the  rude  rocks  desp'rately 
Rush'd  to  my  prey  —  thou  know'st  the  rest  — 
I  climb'd  the  gory  vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  dove  within  ;  — 
Thine,  thine  the  victory  —  thine  the  sin 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


33 


If  Love  hath  made  one  thought  his  own, 

That  Vengeance  claims  first  —  last  —  alone ! 

Oh !  had  we  never,  never  met, 

Or  could  this  heart  ev'n  now  forget 

How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been, 

Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between  ! 

Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid, 

In  neighboring  valleys  had  we  dwelt, 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt,  — 
Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties. 
In  which  the  charm  of  Country  lies, 
Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun, 
Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one  ; 
While  in  thy  lute's  awak'ning  sigh 
I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 
And  saw,  in  every  smile  of  thine. 
Returning  hours  of  glory  shine ;  - 
While  the  wrong'd  Spirit  of  our  Land 

Lived,  look'd,  and  spoke  her  wrongs  through  thee, 
God  !  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand  ? 

Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 
But  now  —  estranged,  divorced  for  ever, 
Far  as  the  grasp  of  Fate  can  sever ; 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove,  — 

In  faith,  friends,  country,  sunder'd  wide ; 
And  then,  then  only,  true  to  love, 

When  false  to  all  that 's  dear  beside 
Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe  — 
Thyself,  perhaps,  ev'n  now  —  but  no  — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet ! 

No  —  sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 
All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee. 


134  LALLA     R0GKH. 

When  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmoved, 

Hei  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou  'It  tliink  how  well  one  Gheber  loved, 

And  for  his  sake  thou  'It  weep  for  all ! 

But  look " 

With  sudden  start  he  tum'd 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave, 
Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd 

Bluely,  as  o'er  some  seaman's  grave  • 
And  fiery  darts,  at  intervals, 

Flew  up  all  sparkling  from  the  main, 
As  if  each  star  that  nightly  falls, 

Were  shooting  back  to  heav'n  again. 

"  My  signal  lights  —  I  must  away  — 

Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 

Farewell  —  sweet  life !  thou  cling'st  in  vain  — 

Now,  Vengeance,  I  am  thine  again !  " 

Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stopp'd, 

Nor  look'd  — but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 

Down  mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath, 

As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death. 

While  pale  and  mute  young  Hinda  stood, 

Nor  moved,  till  in  the  silent  flood 

A  momentary  plunge  below 

Startled  her  from  her  trance  of  woe  ;  — 

Shrieking  she  to  the  lattice  flew, 

"  I  come  —  I  come  —  if  in  that  tide 
Thou  sleep'st  to-night,  I  '11  sleep  there  too, 

In  death's  cold  wedlock,  by  thy  side. 
Oh!  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

Than  the  chfll  wave  my  love  lies  under 
Sweeter  to  rest  together  dead, 

Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder!" 


LALLA     ROOEH. 


135 


But  no  —  their  hour  is  not  yet  come  — 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly, 
Waiting  him  sweetly  to  his  home, 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie ; 
And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 

Its  moonlight  way  hefore  the  wind, 
As  if  it  hore  all  peace  within, 

Nor  'eft  one  breaking  heart  behind ! 


__g 


136 


Tni,  Princess,  whose  heart  was  sad  enough  already 
could  have  wished  that  Feramorz  had  chosen  a  lesa 
melancholy  story ;  as  it  is  only  to  the  happy  that  teara 
are  a  luxury.  Her  Ladies,  however,  were  by  no  means 
sorry  that  love  was  once  more  the  Poet's  theme ;  for, 
whenever  he  spoke  of  love,  they  said,  his  voice  was  as 
sweet  as  if  he  had  chewed  the  leaves  of  that  enchanted 
tree  which  grows  over  the  tomb  of  the  musician,  Tan 
Sein. 

Their  road  all  the  morning  had  lain  througn  a  very 
dreary  country  ;  —  through  valleys,  covered  with  a  low, 
bushy  jungle,  where,  in  more  than  one  place,  the  awful 
signal  of  the  bamboo-staff,  with  the  white  flag  at  its 
top,  reminded  the  traveller  that,  in  that  very  spot,  the 
tiger  had  made  some  human  creature  his  victim.  It 
was,  therefore,  with  much  pleasure  that  they  arrived  at 
sunset  in  a  safe  and  lovely  glen,  and  encamped  under 
one  of  those  holy  trees,  whose  smooth  columns  and 
spreading  roofs  seem  to  destine  them  for  natural  tem 
pies  of  religion.  Beneath  this  spacious  shade,  some 
pious  hands  had  erected  a  row  of  pillars  ornamented 
with  the  most  beautiful  porcelain,  which  now  supplied 
the  use  of  mirrors  to  the  young  maidens,  as  they  adjusted 
their  hair  in  descending  from  the  palankeens.  Here, 
while,  as  usual,  the  Princess  sat  listening  anxiously 
with  Fadladeen  in  one  of  his  loftiest  moods  of  criticism 
by  her  side,  the  young  Poet,  leaning  against  a  branch 
of  the  tree,  thus  continued  his  story  ■  -  - 


137 


The  morn  hath  risen  clear  and  calm, 

And  o'er  the  Green  Sea  palely  shines, 
Revealing  Bahrein's  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  Kishma's  amber  vines, 
Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 
While  breezes  from  the  Indian  Sea 
Blow  round  Selama's  sainted  cape, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath,  — 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape, 

And  cocoa-nut  and  flow'ry  wreath, 
Which  pious  seamen,  as  they  pass'd, 
Had  tow'rd  that  holy  headland  cast  — 
Oblations  to  the  Genii  there 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair  ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  night 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen ; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 

Where  thickets  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn,  —  bespangled  o'er 

With  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not  stain 
The  best  and  brightest  cimeter 
That  ever  youthful  Sultan  wore 

On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign. 


And  see  —  the  Sun  himself!  — on  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  East  he  springs. 
Angel  of  Light !  who  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  tneir  march  sublime, 

12* 


f**8  LALLA.     ROOKU. 

Hath  first  of  all  the  starry  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire ! 

Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere. 
When  Iran,  like  a  sun-flow'r  turn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd  '  — 

When,  from  the  banks  of  Bendemeer 
To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand, 
Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land  ? 
Where  are  they  ?  ask  the  shades  of  them 

Who  on  Cadessia's  bloody  plains, 
Saw  fierce  invaders  pluck  the  gem 
From  Iran's  broken  diadem, 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains  :  - 
Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 
On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown, 
Beyond  the  Caspian's  Iron  Gates, 

Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  mountains, 
Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bow'rs  and  sunny  fountains . 
Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 
His  own  beloved,  but  blighted,  sod, 
Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod  !  — 
Oh,  he  would  rather  houseless  roam 

Where  Freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 
Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqu'ror's  creed ! 

Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  forever, 

Quench'd  with  the  flame  in  Mithra's  caves  ?  — 

No  —  she  has  sons,  that  never  —  never  — 
Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves, 
While  heav'n  has  light  or  earth  has  graves ;- 

Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 

But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong : 


LALLA    ROOKK.  139 

And  liearts  where,  slow  but  deep,  the  seeds 

Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds, 

Till,  in  some  treach'rous  hour  of  calm, 

They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm, 

Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 

That  shakes  the  pigmy  forests  round ! 

Yes,  Emu- !  he,  who  scaled  that  tow'r, 

And,  had  he  reach'd  thy  slumb'ring  breast, 
Had  taught  thee,  in  a  Gheber's  pow'r 

How  safe  ev'n  tyrant  heads  may  rest  — 
Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he, 
Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee ; 
Who,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain, 
Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 
Snaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart, 
Yet  dare  the  issue,  —  bless'd  to  be 
Ev'n  for  one  bleeding  moment  free, 
And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty ! 
Thou  know'st  them  well — 'tis  some  moons  sima 

Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags, 
Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  Prince, 

Have  swarm'd  among  these  Green  Sea  crags ; 
Yet  here,  ev'n  here  a  sacred  band 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 
Thou,  Arab,  dar'st  to  call  thy  oAvn, 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown ; 
Here  —  ere  the  winds  half  wing'd  thee  o'er  — 
Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 
Rebellion !  foul,  dishonoring  word, 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  hath  stain'd 
The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 

Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gain'd. 


140  LALLA     ROOKH. 

How  nany  a  spirit,  born  to  bless, 

Hath  sunk  beneath  that  with'ring  name, 
Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success, 

Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame ! 
As  exhalations,  when  they  burst 
From  the  warm  earth,  if  chill'd  at  first, 
If  check'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 
Darken  to  fogs  and  sink  again ;  — 
But,  if  they  once  triumphant  spread 
Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head, 
Become  enthroned  in  upper  air, 
And  turn  to  sun-bright  glories  there  ' 

And  who  is  he,  that  wields  the  might 

Of  Freedom  on  the  Green  Sea  brink, 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  light 

The  eyes  of  Yemen's  warriors  wink  ? 
Who  comes,  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerman's  hardy  mountaineers  ?  - 
Those  mountaineers  that  truest,  last, 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  God,  whose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 
Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  his  worship  too  ! 

'T  is  Hafed  —  name  of  fear,  whose  souat 
Chills  like  the  muttering  of  a  charm !  • 
Shout  but  that  awful  name  around, 

And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm. 
T  is  Hafed,  most  accursed  and  dire 
(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 
Of  all  the  rebel  Sous  of  Fire ; 


LALLA     ROOKfi.  Hi 

Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power 
The  Arabs,  at  their  raid-watch  hour, 
Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell. 
That  each  affrighted  sentinel 
Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes, 
Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise  ■ 
A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birtn, 
A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth, 
Sprung  from  those  old,  enchanted  kings, 

Who  in  their  fairy  helms,  of  yore, 
A  feather  from  the  mystic  wings 

Of  the  Simoorgh  resistless  wore  , 
And  gifted  by  the  Fiends  of  Fire, 
Who  groan'd  to  see  their  shrines  expire, 
With  charms  that,  all  in  vain  witlistood. 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood ' 


Such  were  the  tales,  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  coloring  Fancy  gave 
To  a  you.  -'•  warm,  an  1  dauntless  Chief,— 

One  who,  .:o  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  adored, 

For  happy  homes  and  altars  free, 
His  only  talisman,  the  sword, 

His  only  spell-word,  Liberty  ! 
One  of  that  ancient  hero  line, 
Along  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names,  that  have  sanctified  their  blood 
As  Lebanon's  small  mountain-flood 
Is  render'd  holy  by  the  ranks 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks. 
T  was  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny ; 


|42  LALLA    ROOKH. 

♦T  was  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past, 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead, 
Though  framed  for  Iran's  happiest  years. 
Was  born  among  her  chains  and  tears  !  — 
'T  was  not  for  him  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem,  as  he  pass'd, 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast  — 
No  —  far  he  fled  —  indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame ; 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  sou1  :ike  drops  of  flame; 
And,  as  a  love    iails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  ;>mile,  so  welcomed  he 
The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 

For  vengeance  and  for  liberty ! 


But  vain  was  valor  —  vain  the  flow'r 
Of  Kerman,  in  that  deathful  hour, 
Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  power,  — 
In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  that  realm 
He  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway, 
And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way  — 
In  vain  —  for  every  lance  they  raised, 
Thousands  around  the  conqueror  blazed  • 
For  every  arm  that  lined  their  shore, 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er, — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd, 
Before  whose  swarm  as  fast  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust  cloud. 


LALLA    ROOKH.  143 

Tliere  stood  —  but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  Harmozia's  sultry  bay  — 
A  rocky  mountain,  o'er  the  Sea 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully ; 
A  last  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  reach 
From  th  2  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beach. 
Around  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood, 
Like  naked  giants,  in  the  flood, 

As  if  to  guard  the  Gulf  across  ; 
While,  on  its  peak,  that  braved  the  sky, 
A  ruin'd  Temple  tower'd,  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleeping  albatross 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  ./ltli  her  wing, 
And  from  her  cloud-rock'd  slumbering 
S-arted  —  to  find  man's  dwelling  there 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air ! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 
That  dash'd,  like  midnight  revellers,  in , — 
And  such  the  strange,  mysterious  din 
At  times  throughout  those  caverns  roll'd,  — 
Aria  such  the  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  imprison'd  there, 
That  bold  were  Moslem,  who  would  dare,- 
At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skiff 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  cliff. 


On  the  land  side,  those  tow'rs  sublime, 
That  seem'd  above  the  grasp  of  Time, 
Were  sever'd  from  the  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deep,  and  wizard  glen, 


144  LALLA    ROOKH. 

So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom, 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  Gholes  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb, 

Aid  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder,  from  below, 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came, 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If  't  were  the  sea's  imprison'd  flow, 

Or  floods  of  ever-restless  flame. 
For,  each  ravine,  each  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire ; 
And,  though  for  ever  pas«.  the  days 
When  God  was  worshipp'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone,  — 
Though  fled  the  priests,  the  vot'ries  gone, 
Still  did  the  mighty  flame  burn  on, 
Through  chance  and  change,  through  good  and  ill, 
Like  its  own  God's  eternal  will, 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unquenchable! 

Thither  the  vanquish'd  Hafed  led 

His  little  army's  last  remains  ;  — 
"  Welcome,  terrific  glen !  "  he  said, . 
"  Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'  self  might  dread, 

Is  Heav'n  to  him  who  flies  from  chains ! w 
O'er  a  dark,  narrow  bridgeway,  known 
To  him  and  to  his  Chiefs  alone, 
They  cross'd  the  chasm  and  gain'd  the  tow'rs,  — 
"  This  home,"  he  cried,  "  at  least  is  ours   — 
Here  we  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hymns 

Of  Moslem  triumph  o'er  our  head  ; 
Here  we  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 

To  quiver  to  the  Moslem's  tread. 


TAT.T.A     ROOKH.  145 

Stretch'd  on  this  rock,  while  vulture's  beaks 
Are  whetted  on  your  yet  warm  cheeks, 
Here  —  happy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 
Gloats  on  our  torments  —  we  may  die  ! "  — 

T  was  night  when  to  those  towers  they  came 

And  gloomily  the  fitful  flame, 

That  from  the  ruin'd  altar  broke, 

Glared  on  his  features,  as  he  spoke  :  — 

"  'T  is  o'er  —  what  men  could  do,  we  'ye  done  — 

If  Iran  will  look  tamely  on, 

And  see  her  priests,  her  warriors  driv'n 

Before  a  sensual  bigot's  nod, 
A  wretch  who  shrines  his  lust  in  heav'n, 

And  makes  a  pander  of  his  God ; 
If  her  proud  sons,  her  high-born  souls, 

Men,  in  whose  veins  —  oh  last  disgrace ! 
The  blood  of  Zal  and  Rustam  rolls, — 

If  they  will  court  this  upstart  race, 
And  turn  from  Mithra's  ancient  ray, 
To  kneel  at  shrines  of  yesterdaj  ; 
If  they  will  crouch  to  Iran's  foes, 

Why,  let  them  —  till  the  land's  despair 
Cries  out  to  Heav'n,  and  bondage  grows 

Too  vile  for  ev'n  the  vile  to  bear ! 
Till  shame  at  last,  long  hidden,  burns 
Their  inmost  core,  and  conscience  turns 
Each  coward  tear  the  slave  lets  fall 
Back  on  his  heart  in  drops  of  gaiL 
But  here,  at  least,  are  arms  unchain'd, 
And  souls  that  thraldom  never  stain'd  ;  — 

This  spot,  at  least,  no  foot  of  slave 
Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned ; 

And  though  but  few  —  though  fast  the  wave 


146  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains 
As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun, 
Rush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
Across  the  dark  sea-robbers  way, 
We  '11  bound  upon    ur  startled  prey ; 
And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell 
When  Hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
And  ev'n  Despair  can  prompt  no  more, 
This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave, 
Die  for  the  land  they  cannot  save !  " 

His  Chiefs  stood  round  —  each  shining  blade 
Upon  the  broken  altar  laid  — 
And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 
Those  courts,  where  once  the  Mighty  sate ; 
Nor  longer  on  those  mould'ring  tow'rs 
Was  seen  the  feast  of  fruit  and  flow'rs, 
With  which  of  old  the  Magi  fed 
The  wand'ring  Spirits  of  their  dead ; 
Though  neither  priest  nor  rites  were  there, 

Nor  charmed  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate 
Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air, 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet 
Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them,  while  on  that  altars  fires 
They  swore  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts,  still  left  to  bleed, 
Should  be,  in  Iran's  injured  name, 
To  die  upon  that  Mount  of  Flame  — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line, 
Before  her  last  untrampled  Shrine ! 


LALLA.     ROOKH. 


Brave,  suff'ring  souls  !  they  little  knew 
How  many  a  tear  their  injuries  drew 
From  cne  meek  maid,  one  gentle  foe, 
Whom  love  first  touch'd  with  others'  woe  - 
Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir !  thy  unheeding  child, 
Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smiled,  — 
Tranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  tow'rs, 
Before  the  combat's  redd'ning  stain 

Hath  fall'n  upon  her  golden  flow'rs. 
Light-hearted  maid,  unawed,  unmoved, 
While  Heav'n  but  spared  the  sire  she  loved, 
Once  at  thy  evening  tales  of  blood 
Unlist'ning  and  aloof  she  stood  — 
And  oft,  when  thou  hast  paced  along 

Thy  Haram  halls  with  furious  heat, 
Hast  thou  not  cursed  her  cheerful  song, 

That  came  across  thee,  calm  and  sweet, 
Like  lutes  of  angels,  touch'd  so  near 
Hell's  confines,  that  the  damn'd  can  hear  ! 


Far  other  feelings  Love  hath  brought  — 
Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  Badness, 

She  now  has  but  the  one  dear  thought, 
And  thinks  that  o'er,  almost  to  madness 

Oft  c  )th  her  sinking  heart  recall 

His  t\  ords  —  "  for  my  sake  weep  for  all ;  * 

And  b  tterly,  as  day  on  day 
Of  rebel  carnage  fast  succeeds, 


148  LALLA    R00KH. 

She  weeps  a  lover  snatch'd  away 

In  ev'ry  Gheber  wretch  tliat  bleeds. 
There 's  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eye, 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim : 
There 's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky, 

But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him. 
No  more  she  brings  with  footstep  light 
Al  Hassan's  falchion  for  the  fight ; 
And  —  had  lie  look'd  with  clearer  sight, 
Had  not  the  mists,  that  ever  rise 
From  a  foul  spirit,  dimm'd  his  eyes  — 
He  would  have  mark'd  her  shudd'ring  frame, 
When  from  the  field  of  blood  he  came, 
The  falt'ring  speech  —  the  look  estranged  — 
Voice,  step,  and  life,  and  beauty  changed — 
He  would  have  mark'd  all  this,  and  known 
Such  change  is  wrought  by  Love  alone  I 

Ah !  not  the  Love,  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ; 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosp'rous  Love, 
That,  pledged  on  earth  and  seaPd  above, 
Gro'.vs  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness  ! 
No,  Hinda,  no,  —  thy  fatal  flame 
Is  nursed  in  silence,  sorrow,  shame ;  — 

A  passion,  without  hope  or  pleasure, 
In  thy  soul's  darkness  buried  deep, 

It  lies  like  some  ill-gotten  treasure,  -— 
Some  idol,  without  shrine  or  nan  c, 
O'er  which  its  pale-eyed  vot'rie    keep 
Unholy  watch,  while  others  si  ep 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


149 


Seven  nights  have  darken'd  Oman's  Sea, 

Since  last,  beneath  the  moonlight  ray, 
She  saw  his  light  oar  rapidly 

Hurry  her  Gheber's  bark  away,  — 
And  stdl  she  goes,  at  midnight  hour, 
To  weep  alone  in  that  high  bow'r, 
And  watch,  and  look  along  the  deep 
For  him  whose  smiles  first  made  her  weep 
But  watching,  weeping,  all  was  vain, 
She  never  saw  his  bark  again. 
The  owlet's  solitary  cry, 
The  night-hawk,  flitting  darkly  by, 

And  oft  the  hateful  carrion  bird, 
Heavily  flapping  his  clogg'd  wing, 
Which  reek'd  with  that  day's  banqueting  - 

Was  all  she  saw,  was  all  she  heard. 


'T  is  the  eighth  morn  —  Ai  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brighten'd  with  unusual  joy  — 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him  now, 

Who  never  smiles  but  to  destroy  ? 
The  sparkle  upon  Herkend's  Sea, 
When  toss'd  at  midnight  furiously, 
Tells  not  of  wreck  and  ruin  nigh, 
More  surely  than  that  smiling  eye  ! 
"  Up,  daughter,  up  —  the  Kerna's  breath 
Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  death, 
And  yet  thou  sleep'st  —  up,  child,  and  see 
This  blessed  day  for  Heaven  and  me, 
A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
Than  ever  flash'd  o'er  Oman's  flood. 
Before  another  dawn  shall  shine, 
His  head— heart— limbs  — will  all  be  mine 

13* 


150  LALLA    ROOKH. 

This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 
These  hands  all  over  ere  I  sleep  !  "  — 
"//is  blood  ! "  she  faintly  scream'd  —  her  niind 
Still  singling  one  from  all  mankind  — 
"  Yes  —  spite  of  his  ravines  and  tow'rs, 
Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours. 
Thanks  to  all-conqu'ring  treachery, 

Without  whose  aid  the  links  accursed, 
That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 

Too  strong  for  Alla's  self  to  burst ! 
That  rebel  fiend,  whose  blade  has  spread 
My  path  with  piles  of  Moslem  dead, 
Whose  baffling  spells  had  almost  driv'n 
Back  from  their  course  the  Swords  of  Heav'n, 
This  night,  with  all  his  band,  shall  know 
How  deep  an  Arab's  steel  can  go, 
When  God  and  Vengeance  speed  the  blow. 
And  —  Prophet !  by  that  holy  wreath 
Thou  worst  on  Ohod's  field  of  death, 
I  swear,  for  ev'ry  sob  that  parts 
In  anguish  from  these  heathen  hearts, 
A  gem  from  Persia's  plunder'd  mines 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  Shrine  of  Shrines. 
But,  ha !  —  she  sinks  —  that  look  so  wild  — ■ 
Those  livid  lips  —  my  child,  my  child, 
This  life  of  blood  befits  not  thee, 
And  thou  must  back  t»  Araby. 

Ne'er  had  I  risk'd  thy  timid  sex 
Tn  scenes  that  man  himself  might  dread, 
Had  I  not  hoped  our  ev'ry  tread 

Would  be  on  prostrate  Persian  necks  — 
Cursed  race,  they  offer  swords  instead! 
But  cheer  thee,  maid,  —  the  wind  that  now 
Is  blowing  o'er  thy  feverish  brow, 


LALLA     ROOKH.  151 

To-day  shall  waft  thee  from  the  shore ; 
And,  ere  a  drop  of  this  night's  gore 
Have  time  to  chill  in  yonder  tow'rs, 
Thou  'It  see  thy  own  sweet  Arab  bow'ra ! " 


His  bloody  boast  was  all  too  true 

There  lurk'd  one  wretch  among  the  few 

Whom  Hafed's  eagle  eye  could  count 

Around  him  on  that  Fiery  Mount,  — 

One  miscreant,  who  for  gold  betray'd 

The  pathway  through  the  valley's  shade 

To  those  high  tow'rs,  where  Freedom  stood 

In  her  last  hold  of  flame  and  blood. 

Left  on  the  field  last  dreadful  night, 

When,  sallying  from  their  Sacred  height, 

The  Ghebers  fought  hope's  farewell  fight, 

He  lay  —  but  died  not  with  the  brave ; 

That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave, 

Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave  ;  — 

And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd 

To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 

For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 

They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed, 

He  lived,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 

Laugh'd  them,  and  Faith,  and  Heav'n  to  scorn 


Oh  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave, 
Whose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight, 

Comes  o'er  the  councils  of  the  brave, 
And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might ! 

May  Life's  unblessed  cup  for  him 

Be  drugg'd  with  treach'ries  to  the  brim,  — 


152 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


With  hopes,  that  but  allure  to  fly, 

With  joys,  that  vanish  while  he  sips, 
Like  Dead  Sea  fruits,  that  tempt  the  eye, 

But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips ! 
His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame. 
Outcast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 
May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame 
On  the  parch'd  desert  thirsting  die,  — 
While  lakes,  that  shone  in  mockery  nigh, 
Are  fading  off",  untouch'd,  untasted, 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  olasted ! 
And,  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damn'd-one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paiadise, 

Beholding  heav'n,  and  feeling  hell ! 


=fc 


153 


Lalla.  Rookh  had,  the  night  before,  been  visited  by 
a  dream  which,  in  spite  of  the  impending  fate  of  poor 
Hafed,  made  her  heart  more  than  usually  cheerful 
during  the  morning,  and  gave  her  cheeks  all  the 
freshened  animation  of  a  flower  that  the  Bidmusk  has 
just  passed  over.  She  fancied  that  she  was  sailing 
on  that  Eastern  Ocean,  where  the  sea-gipsies,  who  live 
for  'ever  on  the  water,  enjoy  a  perpetual  summer  in 
wandering  from  isle  to  isle,  when  she  saw  a  small  gilded 
bark  approaching  her.  It  was  like  one  of  those  boats 
which  the  Maldivian  islanders  send  adrift,  at  the  mercy 
of  winds  and  waves,  loaded  with  perfumes,  flowers,  and 
odoriferous  wood,  as  an  offering  to  the  Spirit  whom 
they  call  King  of  the  Sea.  At  first,  this  little  bark 
appeared  to  be  empty,  but,  on  coming  nearer 

She  had  proceeded  thus  far  in  relating  the  dream  to 
her  Ladies,  when  Feramorz  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
pavilion.  In  liis  presence,  of  course,  every  thing  else 
was  forgotten,  and  the  continuance  of  the  story  was 
instantly  requested  by  all.  Fresh  wood  of  aloes  was 
set  to  burn  in  the  cassolets ;  —  the  violet  sherbets  were 
hastily  handed  round,  and  after  a  short  prelude  on  hia 
lute,  in  the  pathetic  measure  of  Nava,  which  is  always 
need  to  express  the  lamentations  of  absent  lovers,  the 
Poet  thus  continued :  — 


J 


L54 


The  day  is  low'ring  —  stilly  black 
Sleeps  the  grim  wave,  while  heav'n's  racb; 
Dispersed  and  wild,  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Hangs  like  a  shatter'd  canopy. 
There  's  not  a  cloud  in  that  blue  plain 

But  tells  of  storm  to  come  or  past ;  — 
Here,  flying  loosely  as  the  mane 

Of  a  young  war-horse  in  the  blast ;  — 
There,  roll'd  in  masses  dark  and  swelling 
As  proud  to  be  the  thunders  dwelling ! 
While  some,  already  burst  and  riv'n, 
Seem  melting  down  the  verge  of  heav'n ; 
As  though  the  infant  storm  had  rent 

The  mighty  womb  that  gave  him  birth, 
And,  having  swept  the  firmament, 

Was  now  in  fierce  career  for  earth. 

On  earth  't  was  yet  all  calm  around, 
A  pulseless  silence,  dread,  profound, 
More  awful  than  the  tempest's  sound. 
The  diver  steer'd  for  Ortnus'  bowers, 
And  moor'd  his  skiff  till  calmer  hours ; 
The  sea-bird,  with  portentous  screech, 
Flew  fast  to  land  ;  —  upon  the  beach 
The  pilot  oft  had  paused,  with  glance 
Turn'd  upward  to  that  wild  expanse ;  — 
And  all  was  boding,  drear,  and  dark 
As  her  own  soul,  when  Hinda's  bark 
Went  slowly  from  the  Persian  shore.  — 
No  music  timed  her  parting  oar, 


I-ALLA    ROOKH.  155 

Nor  friends  upon  the  less'ning  strand 

Linger'd,  to  wave  the  unseen  hand, 

Or  speak  the  farewell,  heard  no  more ;  — 

But  lone,  unheeded,  from  the  bay 

The  vessel  takes  its  mournful  way, 

Like  some  ill-destined  bark  that  steers 

In  silence  through  the  Gate  of  Tears 


And  where  was  stern  Al  Hassan  then  ? 
Could  not  that  saintly  scourge  of  men 
From  bloodshed  and  devotion  spare 
One  minute  for  a  farewell  there  ? 
No  —  close  within,  in  changeful  fits 
Of  cursing  and  of  pray'r,  he  sits 
In  savage  loneliness  to  brood 
Upon  the  coming  night  of  blood.  — 

With  that  keen,  second-scent  of  death, 
By  which  the  vulture  snuffs  his  food 

In  the  still  warm  and  living  breath ! 
While  o'er  the  wave  his  weeping  daughter 
Is  wafted  from  these  scenes  of  slaughter,  - 
As  a  young  bird  of  Babylon,  — 
Let  loose  to  tell  of  vict'ry  won, 
Flies  home,  with  wing,  ah !  not  unstain'd 
By  the  red  hands  that  held  her  chain'd. 


And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 

Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks  ? 

The  flow'rs  she  nursed  —  the  well-known  groves, 

Where  oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  roves  — 

Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 

Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells  ; 


15U  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold, 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count, 
She  left,  all  filleted  with  gold, 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see, 

And  once  again,  at  evening  hour. 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bow'r.  — 
Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now. 
Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow  ? 
No,  —  silent,  from  her  train  apart,  — 
As  even  now  she  felt  at  heart 
The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom,  - 
She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom 
As  a  pale  Angel  of  the  Grave  ; 
As  o'er  the  wide,  tempestuous  wave, 
Looks,  with  a  shudder,  to  those  tow'rs 
Where,  in  a  few  short  awful  hours, 
Blood,  blood,  in  streaming  tides  shall  run, 
Foul  incense  for  to-morrow's  sun ! 
"  Where  art  thou,  glorious  stranger !  thou, 
So  loved,  so  lost,  where  art  thou  now  ? 
Foe  —  Gheber  —  infidel  — whate'er 
Th'  unhallow'd  name  thou  'rt  doom'd  to  bear 
Still  glorious  —  still  to  this  fond  heart 
Dear  as  its  blood,  whate'er  thou  art ! 
Yes  —  Alia,  dreadful  Alia  !  yes  — 
If  there  be  wrong,  be  crime  in  this, 
Let  the  black  waves  that  round  us  roll, 
Whelm  me  this  instant,  ere  my  soul, 
Forgetting  faith  —  home  —  father  —  all  — 
Before  its  earthly  idol  fall, 
Nor  worship  ev'n  Thyself  above  him  — 
For,  oil,  so  wildly  do  I  love  him, 


LALLA    ROOKB.  15? 

Thy  Paradise  itself  were  dim 

And  joyless,  if  not  shared  with  him !  " 

Her  hands  were  clasp'd  —  her  eyes  upturn'd, 

Dropping  their  tears  like  moonlight  rain , 
And,  though  her  lip,  fond  raver  !  burn'd 

With  words  of  passion,  bold,  profane, 
Yet  was  there  light  around  her  brow, 

A  holiness  in  those  dark  eyes, 
Which  show'd,  though  wand'ring  earthward  now 

Her  spirit's  home  was  in  the  skies 
Yes  —  for  a  spirit  pure  as  hers 
Is  always  pure,  ev'n  while  it  errs  ; 
As  sunshine,  broken  in  the  "rill, 
Though  turn'd  astray,  is  sunshine  still ! 
So  wholly  had  her  mind  forgot 
All  thoughts  but  one,  she  heeded  not 
The  rising  storm  —  the  wave  that  cast 
A  moment's  midnight,  as  it  pass'd  — 
Nor  heard  the  frequent  shout,  the  tread 
Of  gath'ring  tumult  o'er  her  head  — 
Clash'd  swords,  and  tongues  that  seem'd  to  vie 
With  the  rude  riot  of  the  sky.  — 
But,  hark !  —  that  war-whoop  on  the  deck  — 

That  crash,  as  if  each  engine  there, 
Mast,  sails,  and  all,  were  gone  to  wreck, 

Mid  yells  and  stampings  of  despair ! 
Merciful  Heaven  !  what  can  it  be  ? 
'T  is  not  the  storm,  though  fearfully 
The  ship  has  shudder'd  as  she  rode 
O'er  mountain-waves  —  "  Forgive  me,  God ! 
Forgive  me  "  —  shriek'd  the  maid,  and  knelt, 
Trembling  all  over  —  for  she  felt 
As  if  her  judgment-hour  was  near ; 
While  crouching  round,  half  dead  with  fear, 


158  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Her  handmaids  clung,  nor  breathea,  nor  stirr'd  ■ 
When,  hark  !  —  a  second  crash  —  a  ihird  — 
And  now,  as  if  a  bolt  of  thunder 
Had  riv'n  the  laboring  planks  asunder, 
The  deck  falls  in  —  what  horrors  then ! 
Blood,  waves,  and  tackle,  swords  and  men 
Come  mix'd  together  through  the  chasm,  — 
Some  wretches  in  their  dying  spasm 
Still  fighting  on  —  and  some  that  call 
"  For  God  and  Iran !  "  as  they  fall ' 


Whose  was  the  hand  that  turn'd  away 
The  perils  of  th'  infuriate  fray, 
And  snatch'd  her  breathless  from  beneath 
This  wilderment  of  wreck  and  death  ? 
She  knew  not  —  for  a  faintness  came 
Chill  o'er  her,  and  her  sinking  frame 
Amid  the  ruins  of  that  hour 
Lay,  like  a  pale  and  scorched  flow'r, 
Beneath  the  red  volcano's  shower. 
But,  oh!  the  sights  and  sounds  of  dread 
That  shock'd  her  ere  her  senses  fled ! 
The  yawning  deck  —  the  crowd  that  stiove 
Upon  the  tott'ring  planks  above  — 
The  sail,  whose  fragments,  shiv'ring  o'er 
The  stragglers'  heads,  all  dash'd  with  gore, 
Flutter'd  like  bloody  flags  —  the  clash 
Of  sabres,  and  the  lightning's  flash 
Upon  their  blades,  high  toss'd  about 
Like  meteor  brands  —  as  if  throughout 

The  elements  one  fury  ran, 
One  gen'ral  rage,  that  left  a  doubt 

Which  was  the  fiercer,  Heav'n  or  Man 


iiiLLA     ROOKH.  159 

Once  too  —  but  no  —  it  could  not  be  — 

'T  was  fancy  all  — yet  once  she  thought, 
While  yet  her  fading  eyes  could  see, 

High  on  the  ruin'd  deck  she  caught 
A  glimpse  of  that  unearthly  form, 

That  glory  of  her  soul,  —  even  then. 
Amid  the  whirl  of  wreck  and  storm, 

Shining  above  his  fellow-men, 
As,  on  some  black  and  troublous  night, 
The  Star  of  Egypt,  whose  proud  light 
Never  hath  beam'd  on  those  who  rest 
In  the  White  Islands  of  the  West, 
Burns  through  the  storm  witn  looks  of  flame 
That  put  Heav'n's  cloudier  eyes  to  shame. 
But  no  —  't  was  but  the  minute's  dream  •  - 
A  fantasy  —  and  ere  the  scream 
Had  half-way  pass'd  her  pallid  lipy, 
A  deathlike  swoon,  a  chill  eclipse 
Of  soul  and  sense  its  darkness  spread 
Around  her,  and  she  sunk,  as  dead. 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  sthly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone , 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away, 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray, 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity,  — 
Fresh  as  if  Day  again  were  born. 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn !  — 
When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn 
And  scatter'd  at  the  whirlwind's  will, 
Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still, 
Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm, 
In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm ;  — 


00  LALLA    ROOKH. 

And  every  drop  the  thunder-show'ra 
Have  left  upon  the  grass  and  flow'rs 
Sparkles,  as  't  were  that  lightning-gem 
Whose  liquid  flame  is  born  of  them  ! 
When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs, 
And  each  a  different  perfume  bears,  — 
As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  thern  alone, 
And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs : 
When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall, 
In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 
And  ev'n  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 
Of  lovers'  hearts,  when  newly  bless'd, 
Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest. 

Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 

Upon  the  world,  when  Hinda  woke 

From  her  long  trance,  and  heard  around 

No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 

Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side, 

As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide.  — 

But  where  is  she  ?  —  her  eyes  are  dant, 

Are  wilder'd  still  —  is  this  the  bark, 

The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 

Bore  her  at  morn  —  whose  bloody  way 

The  sea-dog  track'd?  —  no  —  strange  and  new 

Is  all  that  meets  her  wond'ring  view. 

Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies, 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade,  — 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes, 

Nor  jasmine  on  her  pillow  laid 


LALLA    ROOKH. 

But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung. 
Shudd'ring  she  look'd  around  —  there  lay 

A  group  of  warriors  in  the  sun, 
Resting  their  limbs,  as  for  that  day 

Their  ministry  of  death  were  done. 
Some  gazing  on  the  drowsy  sea, 
Lost  in  unconscious  revery 
And  some,  who  seem'd  but  ill  to  brook 
That  sluggish  calm,  with  many  a  look 
To  the  slack  sail  impatient  cast, 
As  loose  it  flagg'd  around  the  mast. 


Blest  Alia !  who  shall  save  her  now  ? 

There  's  not  in  all  that  warrior  band 
One  Arab  sword,  one  turban'd  brow 

From  her  own  Faithful  Moslem  land. 
Their  garb  —  the  leathern  belt  that  wraps 

Each  yellow  vest  —  that  rebel  hue  — 
The  Tartar  fleece  upon  their  caps  — 

Yes  —  yes  —  her  fears  are  all  too  true, 
And  Heav'n  hath,  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
Abandon'd  her  to  Hafed's  power ; 
Hafed,  the  Gheber  !  —  at  the  thought 

Her  very  heart's  blood  chills  within ; 
He,  whom  her  soul  was  hourly  taught 

To  loathe,  as  some  foul  fiend  of  sin, 
Some  minister,  whom  Hell  had  sent, 
To  spread  its  blast,  where'er  he  went 
And  fling,  as  o'er  our  earth  he  trod, 
His  shadow  betwixt  man  and  God ! 

14* 


161 


52  LALLA    R00KH. 

And  she  js  now  his  captive,  —  thrown 
In  his  fierce  hands,  alive,  alone  : 
His  th'  infuriate  band  she  sees, 
All  infidels  —  all  enemies ! 
What  was  the  daring  hope  that  then 
Cross'd  her  like  lightning',  as  again, 
With  boldness  that  despair  had  lent, 

She  darted  through  that  armed  crowd 
A  look  so  searching,  so  intent, 

That  ev'n  the  sternest  warrior  bow'd 
Abash'd,  when  he  her  glances  caught, 
As  if  he  guess'd  whose  form  they  sought. 
But  no  —  she  sees  him  not  —  't  is  gone, 
The  vision  that  before  her  shone 
Through  all  the  maze  of  blood  and  storm, 
Is  fled  —  't  was  but  a  phantom  form  — 
One  of  those  passing,  rainbow  dreams, 
Half  light,  half  shade,  which  Fancy's  beams 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roil 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul. 

But  now  the  bark,  with  livelier  bound, 
Scales  the  blue  wave  —  the  crew's  in  motion, 

The  oars  are  out,  and  with  light  sound 
Break  the  bright  mirror  of  the  ocean, 

Scatt'ring  its  brilliant  fragments  round. 

And  now  she  sees  —  with  horror  sees, 

Their  course  is  tow'rd  that  mountain-hold,  — 

Those  tow;rs,  that  make  her  life-blood  freeze, 

Where  Mecca's  godless  enemies 
Lie,  like  beleaguer'd  scorpions,  roll'd 
In  their  last  deadly,  venomous  fold ! 

Amid  tli'  illumined  land  and  flood 

Sunless  that  mighty  mountain  stood  ■ 


.LALLA    ROOKH. 


163 


Saee  wnere,  above  its  awful  head, 
There  shone  a  flaming  cloud,  blood-red, 
As  't  were  the  flag  of  destiny 
Hun<r  out  to  mark  where  death  would  be ! 


Had  her  bewilder'd  mind  the  pow'r 
Of  thought  in  this  terrific  hour, 
She  well  might  marvel  where  or  how 
Man's  foot  could  scale  that  mountain's  brow, 
Since  ne'er  had  Arab  heard  or  known 
Of  path  but  through  the  glen  alone.— 
But  every  thought  was  lost  in  fear, 
When,  as  their  bounding  bark  drew  near 
The  craggy  base,  she  felt  the  waves 
Hurry  them  tow'rd  those  dismal  caves, 
That  from  the  Deep  in  windings  pass 
Beneath  that  Mount's  volcanic  mass ;  — 
And  loud  a  voice  on  deck  commands 
To  low'r  the  mast  and  light  the  brands !  — 
Instantly  o'er  the  dashing  tide 
Within  a  cavern's  mouth  they  glide 
Gloomy  as  that  eternal  Porch 

Through  which  departed  spirits  go  :  — 
Not  ev'n  the  flare  of  brand  and  torch 
Its  flick'ring  light  could  further  throw 
Than  the  thick  flood  that  boil'd  below 
Silent  they  floated  —  as  if  each 
Sat  breathless,  and  too  awed  for  speech 
In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 
Seem'd  dark,  —  so  sullenly  around 
The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave 
Mutter'd  it  o'er  the  long  black  wave, 
As  't  were  some  secret  of  the  grave 


164  LAL1A    ROOKH. 

But  yofl  —  they  pause  —  the  current  turns 
Beneath  them  from  its  onward  track  ;  — 
Some  mighty,  unseen  barrier  spurns 
The  vexed  tide,  all  foaming,  bacK, 
And  scarce  the  oars'  redoubled  force 
Can  stem  the  eddy's  whirling  course  ; 
When,  hark!  —  some  desp'rate  foot  has  sprung 
Among  fhe  rocks  —  the  chain  is  flung  — 
The  oar   are  up  —  the  grapple  clings, 
And  the  toss'd  bark  in  moorings  swings. 
Just  then,  a  day-beam  through  the  shade 
Broke  tremulous  —  but,  er,e  the  maid 
Can  see  from  whence  the  brightness  steals. 
Upon  her  brow  she  shudd'ring  feels 
A  viewless  hand,  that  promply  ties 
A  bandage  round  her  burning  eyes  ; 
While  the  rude  litter  where  she  lies, 
Uplifted  by  the  warrior  throng, 
O'er  the  steep  rocks  is  borne  along 

Blest  power  of  sunshine  !  —  genial  Day 
What  balm,  what  life  is  in  thy  ray ! 
To  feel  thee  is  such  real  bliss, 
That  had  the  world  no  joy  but  this, 
To  sit  in  sunshine  calm  and  sweet, 
It  were  a  world  too  exquisite 
For  man  to  leave  it  for  the  gloom, 
The  deep,  cold  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
Ev'n  Hinda,  though  she  saw  not  where 

Or  whither  wound  the  peiilous  road, 
Yet  knew  by  that  awak'ning  air, 

Which  suddenly  around  her  glow'd, 
That  they  had  ris'n  from  darkness  then, 
And  breathed  the  sunny  world  again ! 


LALLA    ROOKH.  165 

But  soon  this  balmy  freshness  fled  — 

For  now  the  steepy  labyrinth  led 

Through  damp  and  gloom — 'mid  crash  of  boughs, 

And  fall  of  looson'd  crags  that  rouse 

The  leopard  from  his  hungry  sleep, 

Who,  starting,  thinks  each  crag  a  prey, 
And  long  is  heard,  from  steep  to  siecp, 

Chasing  them  down  their  thund'ring  way ! 
The  jackal's  cry  —  the  distant  moan 
Of  the  nysna,  fierce  and  lone  — 
And  that  eternal  sadd'ning  sound 

Of  torrents  in  the  glen  beneath, 
As  't  were  the  ever  dark  Profound 

That  rolls  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Death ' 
AH,  all  is  fearful  —  ev'n  to  see, 

To  gaze  on  those  terrific  things 
She  now  but  blindly  hears,  would  be 

Relief  to  her  imaginings  ; 
Since  never  yet  was  shape  so  dread, 

But  Fancy,  thus  in  darkness  thrown, 
And  by  such  sounds  of  horror  fed, 

Could  frame  more  dreadful  of  her  own. 

But  does  she  dream  ?  has  Fear  again 
Perplex'd  the  working?  of  her  brain, 
Or  did  a  voice,  all  music,  then 
Come  from  the  gloom,  iow  whisp'rmg  near  — 
"Tremble  not,  love,  thy  Gheber's  here?" 
She  does  not  dream  —  all  sense,  all  ear, 
She  drinks  the  words,  "  Thy  Gheber's  here." 
'T  was  his  own  voice  —  she  could  not  err  — 

Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her. 

So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent ' 


IG6  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Oh,  sooner  shall  the  rose  of  May 
Mistake  her  own  sweet  nightingale, 

And  to  some  meaner  minstrel's  lay 
Open  her  bosom's  glowing  veil, 

Than  Love  shall  ever  doubt  a  tone, 

A  breath  of  the  beloved  one  ! 

Though  blest,  'mid  all  her  ills,  to  trunk 

She  has  that  one  beloved  near, 
Whose  smile,  though  met  on  ruin's  brink, 

Hath  power  to  make  even  ruin  dear,  — 
Yet  soon  this  gleam  of  rapture,  cross'd 
By  fears  for  him,  is  chill'd  and  lost. 
How  shall  the  ruthless  Hafed  brook 
That  one  of  Gheber  blood  should  look, 
With  aught  but  curses  in  his  eye, 
On  her  a  maid  of  Araby  — 
A  Moslem  maid  —  the  child  of  him, 

Whose  bloody  banner's  dire  success 
Hath  left  their  altars  cold  and  dim, 

And  their  fair  land  a  wilderness  ! 
And,  worse  than  all,  that  night  of  blood 

Which  comes  so  fast  —  Oh !  who  shall  sU  j 
The  sword,  that  once  hath  tasted  food 

Of  Persian  heart,  or  turn  its  way ! 
What  arm  shall  then  the  victim  cover, 
Or  from  her  father  shield  her  lover  ? 

"  Save  him,  my  God ! "  she  inly  cries  — 
"  Save  him  this  night  —  and  if  thine  eyes 

Have  ever  welcomed  with  delight 
The  sinner's  tears,  the  sacrifice 

Of  sinners'  hearts  —  guard  him  this  night, 


I.ALLA    ROOKH.  167 

And  here  before  thy  throne,  1  swear 
From  my  Heart's  inmost  core  to  tear 

Love,  hi  pe,  remembrance,  though  they  be 
Link'd  with  each  quiv'ring  life-string  tliere 

And  rive  it  bleeding  all  to  Thee ! 
Let  hi  .1  but  live,  —  the  burning  tear 
The  siglis,  so  sinful,  yet  so  dear, 
Which  have  been  all  too  much  his  own, 
Shall  from  this  hour  be  Heaven's  alone. 
Youth  pass:d  in  penitence,  and  age 
In  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 
Shall  leave  no  traces  of  the  flame 
That  wastes  rae  now  —  nor  shall  his  name 
E'er  bless  my  lips,  but  when  I  pray 
For  his  dear  spirit,  that  away 
Casting  from  its  angelic  ray 
Th'  eclipse  of  earth,  he,  too,  may  shine 
Redeem'd,  all  glorious  and  all  Thine  ! 
Think  —  think  what  victory  to  win 
One  radiant  soul  like  his  from  sin,  — 
One  wand'ring  star  of  virtue  back 
To  his  own  native,  heavenward  track  ! 
Let  him  but  live,  and  both  are  Thine, 

Together  thine  —  for,  bless'd  or  cross'd, 
laving  or  dead,  his  doom  is  mine. 

And,  if  he,  perish,  both  are  lost ! " 


168 


The  next  evening  Lalla  Rookh  was  entreated  by  hei 
Ladies  to  continue  the  relation  of  her  wc  'derful  dream 
but  the  fearful  interest  that  hung  rounu  the  fate  of 
Hinda  and  her  lover  had  completely  removed  every 
trace  of  it  from  her  mind  ;  —  much  to  the  disappoint- 
ment of  a  fair  seer  or  two  in  her  train,  who  prided 
themselves  on  their  skill  in  interpreting  visions,  and 
who  had  already  remarked,  as  an  unlucky  omen,  that 
the  Princess,  on  the  very  morning  after  the  dream,  had 
worn  a  silk  dyed  with  the  blossoms  of  the  sorrowful 
tree,  Nilica. 

Fadladeen,  whose  indignation  had  more  than  once 
broken  out  during  the  recital  of  this  heterodox  poem, 
eeemed  at  length  to  have  made  up  his  mind  to  the  in- 
fliction and  took  his  seat  this  evening  with  all  the 
patience  of  a  martyr,  while  the  Poet  resumeo.  his  pro- 
fane and  seditious  story  as  follows :  — 


169 


To  tearless  eyes  and  hearts  at  ease 

The  leafy  shores  and  sun-bright  seas, 

That  lay  beneath  that  mountain's  height, 

Had  been  a  fair  enchanting  sight. 

'T  was  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves 

A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves 

At  its  calm  setting  —  when  the  West 

Opens  her  golden  bowers  of  rest, 

And  a  moist  radiance  from  the  skies 

Shoots  trembling  down,  as  from  the  eyes 

Of  some  meek  penitent,  whose  last, 

Bright  hours  atone  for  dark  ones  past, 

And  whose  sweet  tears,  o'er  wrong  forgiv'n, 

Shine,  as  they  fall,  with  light  from  heav'n . 

'T  was  stillness  all  —  the  winds  that  late 

Had  rush'd  through  Kerman's  almond  groies, 
And  shaken  from  her  bow'rs  of  date 

That  cooling  feast  the  traveller  loves, 
Now,  lull'd  to  languor,  scarcely  curl 

The  Green  Sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam 
Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 

Were  melted  all  to  form  the  stream : 
And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 

With  their  green  shores  reflected  there, 
Look  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light, 

That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air. 

But  vainly  did  those  glories  burst 
On  Hinda'p  dazzled  eyes,  when  first 


.70  LALLA     KOOKH. 

The  bandage  from  her  brow  was  taken, 
And,  pale  and  awed  as  those  who  waken 
In  their  dark  tombs  —  when,  scowling  near 
The  Searchers  of  the  Grave  appear,  — 
She  shudd'ring  turn'd  to  read  her  fate 

In  the  fierce  eyes  that  flash'd  around ; 
And  saw  those  towers  all  desolate, 

That  o'er  her  head  terrific  frown'd, 
As  if  defying  ev'n  the  smile 

Of  that  soft  heav'n  to  gild  their  pile. 

In  vain  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
She  looks  for  him  whose  voice  so  dear 
Had  come,  like  music,  to  her  ear  — 
Strange,  mocking  dream  !  again  't  is  fled. 
And  oh,  the  shoots,  the  pangs  of  dread 
That  through  her  inmost  bosom  run, 

When  voices  from  without  proclaim 
"  Hafed,  the  Chief"  —  and,  one  by  one, 

The  warriors  shout  that  fearful  name  ! 
He  comes  —  the  rock  resounds  his  tread  — « 
How  shall  she  dare  to  lift  her  head, 
Or  meet  those  eyes  whose  scorching  glare 
Not  Yemen's  boldest  sons  can  bear  ? 
In  whose  red  beam,  the  Moslem  tells, 
Sucli  rank  and  deadly  lustre  dwells, 
As  in  those  hellish  fires  that  light 
The  mandrake's  charnel  leaves  at  night. 
How  shall  she  bear  that  voice's  tone, 
At  whose  loud  battle-cry  alone 
Whole  squadrons  oft  in  panic  ran, 
Scatter'd  like  some  vast  caravan, 
When,  stretch'd  at  evening  round  the  welL 
They  hear  the  thirsting  tiger's  yell. 


LALLA    ROOKH.  17l 

Breathless  she  stands,  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Shrinking  beneath  the  fiery  frown, 
Which,  fancy  tells  her,  from  that  brow- 
Is  flashing  o'er  her  fiercely  now  : 
And  shudd'ring  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  his  retiring  warrior  band.    - 
Never  was  pause  so  full  of  dread  ; 

Till  Hafed  with  a  trembling  hand 
Took  hers,  and,  leaning  o'er  her,  said 
"  Hinda  ; "  —  that  word  was  all  he  spoke, 
And  't  was  enough  —  the  shriek  that  broke 

From  her  full  bosom,  told  the  rest  — 
Panting  with  terror,  joy,  surprise, 
The  maid  but  lifts  her  wond'ring  eyes, 

To  hide  them  on  her  Gheber's  breast ! 
T  is  he,  't  is  he  —  the  man  of  blood, 
The  fellest  of  the  Fire-fiend's  brood, 
Hafed,  the  demon  of  the  fight, 
Whose  voice  unnerves,  whose  glances  blight 
Is  her  own  loved  Gheber,  mild 
And  glorious  as  when  first  he  smiled 
In  her  lone  tow'r,  and  left  such  beams 
Of  his  pure  eye  to  light  her  dreams, 
That  she  believed  her  bower  had  giv'n 
Rest  to  some  wanderer  from  heav'n ! 

Moments  there  are,  and  this  was  one 
Snatch'd  like  a  minute's  gleam  of  sun 
Amid  the  black  Simoon's  eclipse  — 

Or,  like  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 
Around  the  crater's  burning  lips, 

Sweet'ning  the  very  edge  of  doom ! 
The  past  —  the  future  —  all  that  Fate 
Can  bring  of  dark  or  desperate 


172  LALLA     ROOKH. 

Around  such  hours,  but  makes  them  cast 
Intenser  radiance  while  they  last ' 

Ev'n  he,  this  youth  —  though  dimm'd  and  gone 

Each  star  of  Hope  that  cheer'd  him  on  — 

His  glories  lost  —  his  cause  betray'd  — 

Iran,  his  dear-loved  country,  made 

A  land  of  carcasses  and  slaves, 

One  dreary  waste  of  chains  and  graves  !  -  - 

Himself  but  ling'ring,  dead  at  heart, 

To  see  the  last,  long  struggling  breath 

Of  Liberty's  great  soul  depart, 

Then  lay  him  down  and  share  her  death  — 
Ev'n  he,  so  sunk  in  wretchedness, 

With  doom  still  darker  gath'ring  o'er  him. 
Yet,  in  this  moment's  pure  caress, 
In  the  mild  eyes  that  shone  before  him, 
Beaming  that  blest  assurance,  worth 
All  other  transports  known  on  earth, 
That  he  was  loved  —  well,  warmly  loved  - 
Oh  !  in  this  precious  hour  he  proved 
How  deep,  how  thorough-felt  the  glow 
Of  rapture,  kindling  out  of  woe  ;  — 
How  exquisite  one  single  drop 
Of  bliss,  thus  sparkling  to  the  top 
Of  mis'ry'a  cup  —  how  keenly  quafTd, 
Tluugh  death  must  follow  on  the  draught' 

She,  too,  while  gazing  on  those  eyes 

That  sink  into  her  soul  so  deep, 
Forgets  all  fears,  all  miseries, 

Or  feels  them  like  the  wretch  in  sleep, 
Whcm  fancy  cheats  into  a  smile, 
VVhc  dreams  of  joy,  and  sobs  the  while ' 


LALLA    ROOKH.  ITA 

The  mighty  Ruins  where  they  stood, 

Upon  the  mount's  high,  rocky  verge, 
Lay  open  tow'rds  the  ocean  flood, 

Where  lightly  o'er  the  illumined  surge 
Many  a  fair  bark  that  all  the  day, 
Had  lurk'd  in  shelt'ring  creek  or  bay, 
Now  bounded  on,  and  gave  their  sails, 
Yet  dripping,  to  the  ev'mng  gales ; 
Like  eagles,  when  the  storm  is  done 
Spreading  their  wet  wings  in  the  sun 
The  beauteous  clouds,  though  daylight  Star 
Had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  Lar, 
Were  still  with  ling'ring  glories  bright,  — 
As  if,  to  grace  the  gorgeous  West, 

The  Spirit  cf  departing  Light 
That  eve  had  left  his  sunny  vest 

Behind  him,  ere  he  wing'd  his  flight 
Never  was  scene  so  form'd  for  love  ! 
Beneath  them  waves  of  crystal  move 
In  silent  swell  —  Heav'n  glows  above, 
And  their  pure  hearts,  to  transport  giv'n, 
Swell  like  the  wave,  and  glow  like  Heav'n 


But  ah  !  too  soon  that  dream  is  past  — 

Again,  again  her  fear  returns  ;  — 
Night,  dreadful  night,  is  gath'ring  fast, 

More  faintly  the  horizon  burns, 
And  every  rosy  tint  that  lay 
On  the  smooth  sea  hath  died  away. 
Hastily  to  the  dark'ning  skies 
A  glance  she  casts  —  then  wildly  cries 
UM  night,  he  said  —  and,  look,  't  is  near  — 
Fly  fly  —  if  yet  thou  lov'st  me,  fly  — 


I?*  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Soon  will  his  murd'rous  band  be  here, 

And  I  shall  see  thee  bleed  and  die.  — 
Hush  !  heard'st  thou  not  the  tramp  of  men 
Sounding  from  yonder  fearful  glen  ?  — 
Perhaps  ev'n  now  they  climb  the  wood  — 

Fly,  fly  —  though  still  the  West  is  bright, 
He  '11  come  —  oh !  yes  —  he  wants  thy  blood 
I  know  him  —  he  '11  not  wait  for  night !  " 

In  terrors  ev'n  to  agony 

She  clings  around  the  wond'ring  Chief;  — 
"  Alas,  poor  wilder'd  maid  !  to  me 

Thou  ow'st  this  raving  trance  of  grief. 
Lost  as  I  am,  naught  ever  grew 
Beneath  my  shade  but  perish'd  too  — 
My  doom  is  like  the  Dead  Sea  air, 
And  nothing  lives  that  enters  there ! 
Why  were  our  barks  together  driv'n 
Beneath  this  morning's  furious  heav'n  ? 
Why,  when  I  saw  the  prize  that  chance 

Had  thrown  into  my  desp'rate  arms,  — 
When,  casting  but  a  single  glance 

Upon  thy  pale  and  prostrate  charms, 
I  vow'd  (though  watching  viewless  o'er 

Thy  safety  through  that  hour's  alarms) 
To  meet  th'  unmanning  sight  no  more  — 
Why  have  I  broke  that  heart-wrung  vow  ? 
Why  weakly,  madly  met  thee  now  ?  — 
Start  not  —  that  noise  is  but  the  shock 

Of  torrents  through  yon  valley  huri'd  — 
Dread  nothing  here  —  upon  this  rock 

We  stand  above  the  jarring  world, 
Alike  beyond  its  hope  —  its  dread  — 
In  gloomy  safety,  like  the  Dead ! 


LAIXA    ROOKH. 


175 


Or,  could  ev'n  earth  and  hell  unite 
In  league  to  storm  this  Sacred  Height, 
Fear  nothing  thou  —  myself,  to-night, 
And  each  o'erlooking  star  that  dwells 
Near  God,  will  be  thy  sentinels  ;  — 
And,  ere  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  glow, 
Back  to  thy  sire " 

"  To-morrow !  —  no  "  — 
The  maiden  scream'd  —  "  thou  'It  never  see 
To-morrow's  sun  —  death,  death  will  be 
The  night-cry  through  each  reeking  tower, 
Unless  we  fly,  ay,  fly  this  hour ! 
Thou  art  betray'd  —  some  wretch  who  knew 
That  dreadful  glen's  mysterious  clew  — 
Nay,  doubt  not  —  by  yon  stars,  't  is  true  — 
Hath  sold  thee  to  my  vengeful  sire ; 
This  morning,  with  that  smile  so  dire 
He  wears  in  joy,  he  told  me  all, 
And  stamp'd  in  triumph  through  our  hall, 
As  though  thy  heart  already  beat 
Its  last  life-throb  beneath  his  feet ! 
Good  Heav'n,  how  little  dream'd  I  then 

His  victim  was  my  own  loved  youth !  — 
Fly  —  Send  —  let  some  one  watch  the  glen-— 

By  all  my  hopes  of  heav'n  't  is  truth  !  " 


Oh !  colder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 
Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunshine  play'd 

Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 
The  trusting  bosom,  when  betray'd. 

He  felt  it  —  deeply  felt  —  and  stood, 

As  if  the  tale  had  froz'n  his  blood 


176  LALLA    ROOKH, 

So  mazed  and  motionless  was  he;  — 
Like  one  whom  sudden  spells  enchant, 
Or  some  mute,  marble  habitant 

Of  the  still  Halls  of  Ishmonie ! 

But  soon  the  painful  chill  was  o'er, 
And  his  great  soul,  herself  once  more 
Look'd  from  his  brow  in  all  the  rays 
Of  her  best,  happiest,  grandest  days. 
Never,  in  moment  most  elate, 

Did  that  high  spirit  loftier  rise  ;  — 
While  bright,  serene,  determinate, 

His  looks  are  lifted  to  the  skies, 
As  if  the  signal  lights  of  Fate 

Were  shining  in  those  awful  eyes ! 
'T  is  come  —  his  hour  of  martyrdom 
In  Iran's  sacred  cause  is  come : 
And,  though  his  life  hath  pass'd  awav 
Like  lightning  on  a  stormy  day, 
Yet  shall  his  death-hour  leave  a  track 

Of  glory,  permanent  and  bright, 
To  which  the  brave  of  after-times, 
The  suff  'ring  brave,  shall  long  look  back 

With  proud  regTet,  —  and  by  its  light 

Watch  through  the  hours  of  slavery's  night 
For  vengeance  on  th'  oppressor's  crimes. 
This  rock,  his  monument  aloft, 

Shall  speak  the  tale  to  many  an  age  ; 
And  hither  bards  and  heroes  oft 

Shall  come  in  secret  pilgrimage, 
And  bring  their  warrior  sons,  and  tell 
The  wond'ring  boys  where  Hafed  fell ; 
And  swear  them  on  those  lone  remains 
Of  their  lost  country's  ancient  fanes, 


LALLA     ROOKH.  177 

Never  —  while  breath  of  life  shall  live 
Within  them  —  never  to  forghe 
Tli'  accursed  race,  whose  ruthless  chain 
Hath  left  on  Iran's  neck  a  stain 
Blood,  olood  alone  can  cleanse  again ! 
Such  are  the  swelling  thoughts  that  now 
Enthrone  themselves  on  Hafed's  brow; 
And  ne'er  did  Saint  of  Issa  gaze 

On  the  red  wreath,  for  martyrs  twined, 
More  proudly  than  the  youih  surveys 

That  pile,  which  through  the  gloom  behind, 
Half  lighted  by  the  altar's  fire. 
Glimmers  —  his  destined  funeral  pyre  ? 
Heap'd  by  his  own,  his  comrades'  hands, 

Of  ev'ry  wood  of  odorous  breath, 
There,  by  the  Fire-God's  shrine  it  stands, 

Ready  to  fold  in  radiant  death 
The  few  still  left  of  those  who  swore 
To  perish  there,  when  hope  was  o'er  — 
The  few,  to  whom  that  couch  of  flame, 
Which  rescues  them  from  bonds  and  shame, 
Is  sweet  and  welcome  as  the  bed 
For  their  own  infant  Prophet  sn.ead, 
When  pitying  Ileav'n  to  roses  turn'd 
The  death-flames  that  beneath  him  bum'd 

With  watchfulness  the  maid  attenls 
His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  hends  — 
Why  shoot  his  eyes  such  awful  beams  ' 
Wiiat  plans  he  now?  what  thinks  or  dreams/ 
Alas  !  why  stands  he  musing  here, 
When  ev'ry  moment  teems  with  fear? 
"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  Lord." 
She  kneeling  cries  —  "  first,  last  adored ! 


i78  hALLA    ROOKH. 

If  in  that  soul  thou  'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  tl  y  lips  impassion'd  awore 
Here,  on  my  knees  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  fly  ■ — 
Now,  now  —  ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh 
Oh  haste  —  the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  dark'ning  sea, 
East  —  west  —  alas,  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee ! 
Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me  smiling  thus, 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shin« 

The  world  's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 
On  some  calm.,  blessed  shore  we  '11  dwell, 
Where  't  is  no  crime  to  love  too  well ; — 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin  —  or,  if  it  be, 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, 
Thou,  for  ray  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
And  I  —  at  any  God's,  for  thine  ! " 

Wildly  these  passionate  words  she  spoke  — 
Then  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  sharie  , 

Sobbing,  p.s  if  a  heart-string  broke 

With  every  deep-heaved  sob  that  cane. 

While  he,  young,  warm  —  oh  !  wonder  not 
If,  tor  a  moment,  pride  and  fame, 
His  oath  —  his  cause  —  that  shrine  cf  flame. 

And  Iran's  self  are  all  forgot 

For  her  whom  at  his  feet  he  sees 

Kneeling  in  speechless  agonies. 


LALLA     ROOKH.  179 

No,  blame  him  not,  if  Hope  awhile 
Dawn'd  in  his  soul,  and  threw  her  smile 
O'er  hours  to  come  —  o'er  days  and  nights, 
Wing'd  with  those  precious,  pure  delights 
Which  she,  who  bends  all  beauteous  there, 
Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share. 
A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole, 
First  warn'd  him  of  this  dang'rous  cloud 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray  ;  — 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  fight, 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dews  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd  its  light 
Yet  though  subdued  th'  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness,  linger'd  still 

So  touching  in  its  look  and  tone, 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half  counted  on  the  flight  she  pray'd, 

Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 

As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own, 
And  smiled  and  blcss'd  him,  while  he  said, 
"  Yes  —  if  there  be  some  happier  sphere, 
Where  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear,  — 
If  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

For  those  who  love  and  ne'er  forget, 
Oh  !  comfort  thee  —  for  safe  and  bless'd 

We  '11  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet ! " 

Scarce  had  she  time  to  ask  her  heart 
If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart, 
When  the  roused  youth  impatient  flew 
To  the  tow'r-wall,  where,  high  in  view, 


350  LALLA    ROOKH. 

A  pond'rous  sea-horn  hung,  and  blew 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  storm-fiend  at  his  rising  blows.  — 
Full  well  his  Chieftains,  sworn  and  true 
Through  life  and  death,  that  signal  knew 
For 't  was  th'  appointed  warning  blast, 
Tli'  alarm,  to  tell  when  hope  was  past, 
And  the  tremendous  death-die  cast! 
And  there,  upon  the  mould'ring  tow'r, 
Hath  hung  this  sea-horn  many  an  houi 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dinje-note  of  tne  brave  and  fret* 


They  came  —  his  Chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all  — 
Alas,  how  few  !  — the  worn  remains 
Of  those  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gayly  prancing  to  the  clash 

Of  Moorish  zel  and  tymbalon, 
Catching  new  hope  from  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun, 
And,  as  their  courser's  charged  the  wind, 
And  the  white  ox-tails  stream'd  behind, 
Looking,  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  Chief  a  God  ! 
How  fall'n,  how  alter  d  now !  how  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone 
As  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came ;  — 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast, 
As  mute  they  paused  before  the  flame 

To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd  ! 
'T  was  silence  all  —  the  youth  had  plann'd 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band  ; 


LALLA.     ROOKH.  181 

And  each  determined  brow  declares 
His  faithful  Chieftains  well  know  theirs. 

But  minutes  speed  —  night  gems  the  skies  — 
And  oil,  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes, 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  the  veteran  group 
Her  litter  silently  prepare, 

And  lay  it  at  her  trembling  feet;  — 
And  now  the  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Hath  placed  her  in  the  shelter'd  seat, 
And  press'd  her  hand  —  that  ling'ring  press 

Of  hands,  that  for  the  last  time  sever ; 
Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  for  ever. 
And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hope  —  so  fondly  hope  can  err! 
'T  was  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mute  excess  — 

Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger  ; 
'T  was  warmth  —  assurance  —  tenderness  — 

'T  was  any  thing  but  leaving  her. 

''Haste,  haste!"  she  cried,  "the  clouds  growdaik 
But  still,  ere  night,  we  '11  reach  the  bark ; 
And  by  to-morrow's  dawn  —  oh  bliss  ! 

With  thee  upon  the  sun-bright  deep, 
Far  off,  I  '11  but  remember  this, 

As  some  dark  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep  ; 
And  thou "  but  all !  —  he  answers  not  — 

Good  Heav'n !  —  and  does  she  go  alone  ? 
She  now  lias  reach'd  that  dismal  spot, 

Where,  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 


182  LAI/LA     ROOKH. 

Had  come  to  soothe  her  fears  and  ilia, 
Sweet  as  the  angel  Israfil's, 
When  every  leaf  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  trembling  to  his  minstrelsy  — 
Y  ^t  now  —  oh,  now,  he  is  not  nigh-  — 

"  Hafed  !  my  Hafed  !  —  if  it  be 
Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

Let  me  but  stay  to  die  with  thee, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  loved  name, 
Till  the  last  life-breath  leaves  this  frame. 
Oh !  let  our  lips,  our  cheeks  be  laid 
But  near  each  other  while  they  fade ; 
Let  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths, 
And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths  ! 
You  too,  who  hurry  me  away 
So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay  — 

Oh  !  stay  —  one  moment  is  not  much  — 
He  yet  may  come  —  for  hun  I  pray  — 
Hafed  !  dear  Hafed  ! "  —  all  the  way 

In  wild  lamentings,  that  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone,  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  the  dark  woods  —  no  Hafed  came :  — 
No  —  hapless  pair  —  you  've  look'd  your  last 

Your  hearts  should  both  have  broken  then 
The  dream  is  o'er  —  your  doom  is  cast  — 

You  '11  never  meet  on  earth  again ! 


Alas  for  him,  who  hears  her  cries ! 

Still  half-way  down  the  steep  he  stands, 
Watching  with  fix'd  and  feverish  eyes 

The  glimmer  of  those  burning  brands, 
That  down  the  rocks,  with  mournful  ray, 
Light  all  he  loves  on  earth  away ! 


LALLA     ROOKH. 


1S3 


Hopeless  as  they  who,  fur  at  sea. 

By  the  cold  moon  have  just  consign'd 
The  corse  of  one,  loved  tenderly, 

To  the  bleak  flood  they  leave  behind ; 
And  on  the  deck  still  ling'ring  stay, 
And  long  look  back,  with  sad  delay, 
To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wave. 
That  ripples  o'er  that  cheerless  grave. 


Itut  see  —  he  starts  —  what  heard  he  then  ? 
That  dreadful  shout !  —  across  the  glen 
From  the  land-side  it  comes,  and  loud 
Rings  through  the  chasm  ;  as  if  the  crowd 
Of  fearful  things,  that  haunt  that  dell, 
Its  Gholes  and  Dives  and  shapes  of  hell, 
Had  all  in  one  dread  howl  broke  out, 
So  loud,  so  terrible  that  shout! 
"They  come  —  the  Moslems  come!"  —  he  cries. 
His  proud  soul  mounting  to  his  eyes,  — 
"  Now,  Spirits  of  the  Brave,  who  roam 
Enfranchised  through  yon  starry  dome, 
Rejoice  —  for  souls  of  kindred  fire 
Are  on  the  wing  to  join  your  choir ! " 
He  said  —  and,  light  as  bridegrooms  bound 

To  their  young  loves,  reclimb'd  the  steep 
And  gain'd  the  Shrine  —  his  Chiefs  stood  round  - 

Their  swords,  as  with  instinctive  leap, 
Together,  at  that  cry  accursed, 
Had  from  their  sheaths,  like  sunbeams,  burst. 
And  hark !  —  again  —  again  it  rings  ; 
Near  and  more  near  its  echoings 
Peal  through  the  chasm  —  oh !  who  that  then 
Had  seen  those  list'ning  warrior-men, 


184  LA1LA     ROOKH. 

With  their  swords  grasp'd,  their  eyes  of  flame 
Turn'd  on  their  Chief —  could  doubt  the  shame, 
Th'  indignant  shame  with  which  they  thrill 
To  hear  those  shouts,  and  yet  stand  still  " 


lie  read  their  thoughts  —  they  were  his  own  — 

"  What !  while  our  arms  can  wield  thest  blades 
Shall  we  die  tamely  ?  die  alone  ? 

Without  one  victim  to  our  shades, 
One  Moslem  heart,  where,  buried  deep, 
The  sabre  from  its  toil  may  sleep  ? 
No  —  God  of  Iran's  burning  skies ! 
Thou  scorn'st  th'  inglorious  sacrifice. 
No  —  though  of  all  earth's  hope  bereft, 
Life,  swords,  and  vengeance  still  are  lefV 
We  "11  make  yon  valley's  reeking  caves 

Live  in  the  awe-struck  minds  of  men, 
Till  tyrants  shudder,  when  their  slaves 

Tell  of  the  Gheber's  bloody  glen. 
Follow  orave  hearts !  —  this  pile  remains 
Our  refuge  still  from  life  and  chains ; 
But  his  the  best,  the  holiest  bed, 
Who  sinks  entomb'd  in  Moslem  dead !  " 


Down  the  precipitous  rocks  they  sprung, 
While  vigor,  more  than  human,  strung 
Each  aim  and  heart.  —  Th'  exulting  foe 
Still  through  the  dark  defiles  below, 
Track'd  by  his  torches'  lurid  fire, 

Wound  slow,  as  through  Golconda's  vala 
The  mighty  serpent,  in  his  ire, 

Glides  on  with  glitt'ring,  deadly  trail 


LALLA    ROOKH.  185 

No  torch  the  Ghebers  need  —  so  well 

They  know  each  myst'ry  of  the  dell, 

So  ofl  have,  in  their  wanderings, 

Cross'd  the  wild  race  that  round  them  dwelL 

The  very  tigers  from  their  delves 
Look  out,  and  let  them  pass,  as  tilings 

Untamed  and  fearless  like  themselves ' 


There  was  a  deep  ravine,  that  lay 

Yet  darkling  in  the  Moslem's  way  ; 

Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 

The  many  fall'n  before  the  few. 

The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 

Had  fill'd  the  narrow  chasm  breast-high, 

And  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild, 

Huge  cliffs  and  toppling  crags  were  piled,  — 

The  guards  with  which  young  Freedom  lines 

The  pathways  to  her  mountain-shrines. 

Here,  at  this  pass,  the  scanty  band 

Of  Iran's  last  avengers  stand  ; 

Here  wait,  in  silence  like  the  dead, 

And  listen  for  the  Moslem's  tread 

So  anxiously,  the  carrion-bird 

Above  them  flaps  his  wing  unheard  ! 

They  come  —  that  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter. 
Now,  Ghebers,  now  —  if  e'er  your  blades 

Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now  — 
Woe  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades  ! 

The)*  come  —  a  falchion  greets  each  brow 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunk, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 

16* 


186  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  presa 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless ; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  Hafed's  band, 

So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stii, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 

The  sword  hangs,  clogg'd  with  massacre 
Never  was  horde  of  tyrants  met 
With  bloodier  welcome  —  never  yet 
To  patriot  vengeance  hath  the  sword 
More  terrible  libations  pour'd  ! 

All  up  the  dreary,  long  ravine, 
By  the  red,  murky  glimmer  seen 
Of  half-quench'd  brands,  that  o'er  the  flood 
Lie  scatter'd  round  and  burn  in  blood, 
What  ruin  glares  !  what  carnage  swims ! 
Heads,  blazing  turbans,  quiv'ring  limbs, 
Lost  swords  that,  dropp'd  from  many  a  hand, 
In  that  thick  pool  of  slaughter  stand  ;  — 
Wretches  who  wading,  half  on  fire 

From  the  toss'd  brands  that  round  them  fly 
'Twixt  floou  and  flame  in  shrieks  expire  ;  — 

And  some  who,  grasp'd  by  those  that  die, 
Sink  woundless  with  them,  smother'd  o'er 
In  their  dead  brethren's  gushing  gore  ! 

But  vainly  hundreds,  thousands  bleed, 
Still  hundreds,  thousands  more  succeed ; 
Countless  as  tow'rds  some  flame  at  night 
The  North's  dark  insects  wing  their  flight, 
And  quench  or  perish  in  its  light, 
To  this  terrific  spot  they  pour  — 
Till,  bridged  with  Moslem  bodies  o'er. 


LALLA     ROOKH.  187 

It  beare  aloft  their  slipp'ry  tread, 
And  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Tremendous  causeway  !  on  they  pass.  — 
Then,  hapless  Ghebers,  then,  alas, 
What  hope  was  left  for  you  ?  for  you, 
Whose  yet  warm  pile  of  sacrifice 
Is  smoking  in  their  vengeful  eyes ;  — 
Whose  swords  how  keen,  how  fierce  they  knew, 
And  burn  with  shame  to  find  how  few  ? 


Crush'd  down  by  that  vast  multitude, 

Some  found  their  graves  where  first  they  stood ; 

While  some  with  hardier  struggle  died, 

And  still  fought  on  by  Hafed's  side, 

Who,  fronting  to  the  foe,  trod  back 

Tow'rds  the  high  towers  his  gory  track ; 

And,  as  a  lion  swept  away 

By  sudden  swell  of  Jordan's  pride 
From  the  wild  covert  where  he  lay, 

Long  battles  with  th'  o'erwhelming  tide, 
So  fought  he  back  with  fierce  delay, 
And  kept  both  foes  and  fate  at  bay. 

But  whither  now  ?  their  track  is  lost, 

Their  prey  escaped  —  guide,  torches  gone  -< 

By  torrent  beds  and  labyrinths  cross'd, 
The  scatter'd  crowd  rush  blindly  on  — 

"  Curse  on  those  tardy  lights  that  wind," 

They  panting  cry,  "  so  far  behind  ; 

Oh  for  a  bloodhound's  precious  scent, 

To  track  the  way  the  Gheber  went !  " 

Vain  wish  —  confusedly  along 

They  rush,  more  desp'rate  as  more  wrong 


188  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Till,  wilder'd  by  the  far-off  lights, 
Yet  glitt'ring  up  those  gloomy  heights. 
Their  footing,  mazed  and  lost,  they  miss, 
And  down  the  darkling  precipice 
Are  dash'd  into  the  deep  abyss  ; 
Or  midway  hang,  impaled  on  rocks, 
A  banquet,  yet  alive,  for  flocks 
Of  rav'ning  vultures,  —  while  the  dell 
Re-echoes  with  each  horrid  yell 

Those  sounds  —  the  last,  to  vengeance  dear, 
That  e'er  shall  ring  in  Hafed's  ear,  — 
Now  reach'd  him,  as  aloft,  alone, 
Upon  the  steep  way  breathless  thrown, 
He  lay  beside  his  reeking  blade, 

Resigned,  as  if  life's  task  were  o'er, 
Its  last  blood-offering  amply  paid, 

And  Iran's  self  could  claim  no  more. 
One  only  thought,  one  ling'ring  beam 
Now  broke  n  cross  his  dizzy  dream 
Of  pain  and  weariness  —  't  was  she, 

His  heart's  pure  planet,  shining  yet 
Above  the  waste  of  memory, 

When  all  life's  other  lights  were  set. 
And  never  to  his  mind  before 
Her  image  such  enchantment  wore. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought  that  stain'd, 

Each  fear  that  chilPd  their  loves  was  past, 
And  not  one  cloud  of  earth  remain'd 

Between  him  and  her  radiance  cast;  — 
As  if  to  chairas,  before  so  bright, 

New  grace  from  other  worlds  was  giv'n, 
And  his  soul  saw  her  by  the  light 

Now  breaking  o'er  itself  from  heav'n ! 


I-AT.T.A.     ROOKH.  189 

A  voice  spoke  near  him  —  't  was  tae  tone 

Of  a  loved  friend,  the  only  one 

Of  all  his  warriors,  left  with  life 

From  that  short  night's  tremendous  strife.  — 

"  And  must  we  then,  my  Chief,  die  here  ? 

Foes  round  us,  and  the  Shrine  so  near !  " 

These  words  have  roused  the  last  remains 

Of  life  within  him  —  "  What !  not  yet 
Beyond  the  reach  of  Moslem  chains  ! " 

The  thought  could  make  ev'n  Death  forget 
His  icy  bondage  —  with  a  bound 
He  springs,  all  bleeding,  from  the  ground, 
And  grasps  his  comrade's  arm,  now  grown 
E\'n  feebler,  heavier  than  his  own, 
And  up  the  painful  pathway  leads, 
Death  gaining  on  each  step  he  treads. 
Speed  them,  thou  God,  who  heardst  their  vow  ! 
They  mount  —  they  bleed  —  oh  save  them  now  - 
The  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
The  rock-weed  's  dripping  with  their  gore ;  — 
Tliy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length, 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tott'ring  strength 
Haste,  haste  —  the  voices  of  the  Foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below  — 
One  effort  more  —  thank  Heav'n  !  't  is  past, 
They  've  gain'd  the  topmost  steep  at  last 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  divine  — 
When,  lo !  —  his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 

Dead  on  the  threshold  of  the  Shrine. 
"  Alas,  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled  ! 

And  must  I  leave  thee  with'ring  here, 
The  sport  of  every  ruffian's  tread, 

The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear  5 


^J 


190  LAL1A     ROOKH. 

No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams ! " 

He  cries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seems 

Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 

Of  the  falfn  Chief,  and  tow'rds  the  flame 

Bears  him  along  ;  —  with  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays, 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand, 

And  fires  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 
Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  Oman's  Sea.  — 
41  Now,  Freedom's  God !  I  come  to  Thee," 
The  youth  exclaims,  and  with  a  smile 
Of  triumph  vaulting  on  the  pile, 
In  that  last  effort,  ere  the  fires 
Have  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires  ! 


What  shriek  was  that  on  Oman's  tide  ? 

It  came  from  yonder  drifting  bark, 
That  just  hath  caught  upon  her  side 

The  death-light  —  and  again  is  drjrk. 
It  is  the  boat  —  ah,  why  delay'd  ?  — 
That  bears  the  wretched  Moslem  maid 
Confided  to  the  watchful  care 

Of  a  small  veteran  band,  with  whom 
Their  gen'rous  Chieftain  would  not  share 

The  secret  of  his  final  doom, 
But  hoped  when  Hinda,  safe  and  free, 

Was  render'd  to  her  father's  eyes, 
Their  pardon,  full  and  prompt,  would  be 

The  ransom  of  so  dear  a  prize.  — 
Unconscious,  thus,  of  Hafed's  fate, 
And  proud  to  guard  their  beauteous  freight, 
Scarce  had  they  cleard  the  surfy  waves 
That  foam  around  those  frightful  caves, 


LALLA    ROOKH.  19l 

When  the  cursed  war-whoops,  known  so  well, 
Came  echoing  from  the  distant  dell  — 
Sudden  each  oar,  upheld  and  still, 

Hung  dripping  o'er  the  vessel's  side 
And,  driving  at  the  current's  will, 

They  rock'd  along  the  whisp'ring  tide ; 
While  ever}'  eye,  in  mute  dismay, 

Was  tow'rd  that  fatal  mountain  turn'd, 
Where  the  dim  altar's  quiv'ring  ray 

As  yet  all  lone  and  tranquil  burn'd. 


Oh  !  't  is  not,  Hinda,  in  the  pow'r 

Of  Fancy's  most  terrific  touch 
To  paint  thy  pangs  in  that  dread  hour  — 

Thy  silent  agony  —  't  was  such 
As  those  who  feel  could  paint  too  well, 
But  none  e'er  felt  and  lived  to  tell ! 
T  was  not  alone  the  dreary  state 
Of  a  lorn  spirit,  crush'd  by  fate, 
When,  though  no  more  remains  to  dread, 

The  panic  chill  will  not  depart ;  — 
When,  though  the  inmate  Hope  be  dead, 

Her  ghost  still  haunts  the  mould'ring  heart 
No  —  pleasures,  hopes,  affections  gone, 
The  wretch  may  bear,  and  yet  live  on, 
Like  things,  within  the  cold  rock  found 
Alive,  when  all 's  congeal'd  around. 
But  there  's  a  blank  repose  in  this, 
A  calm  stagnation,  that  were  bliss 
To  the  keen,  burning,  harrowing  pain, 
Now  felt  through  all  thy  breast  and  brain ;  — 
That  spasm  of  terror,  mute,  intense, 
That  breathless,  agonized  suspense, 


WJ 


LALLA     ROOKH. 


Prom  whose  hot  throb,  whose  deadly  aching, 
The  heart  hath  no  relief  but  breaking ! 

Calm  is  the  wave  —  heav'n's  brilliant  lights 

Reflected  dance  beneath  the  prow ; 
Time  was  when,  on  such  lovely  nights. 

She  who  is  there,  so  desolate  now, 
Could  sit  all  cheerful,  though  alone, 

And  ask  no  happier  joy  than  seeing 
Thp-t  starlight  o'er  the  waters  thrown  — 
N<  joy  but  that,  to  make  her  blest, 

And  the  fresh,  buoyant  sense  of  Being, 
Which  bounds  in  youth's  yet  careless  breast,  • 
Itself  a  star,  not  borrowing  light, 
But  in  its  own  glad  essence  bright 
How  different  now !  —  but,  hark,  again 
The  yell  of  havoc  rings  —  brave  men ! 
In  vain,  with  beating  hearts,  ye  stand 
On  the  bark's  edge  —  in  vain  each  hand 
Half  draws  the  falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 

All 's  o'er  —  in  rust  your  blades  may  lie :  — 
He,  at  whose  word  they  've  scatter'd  death, 

Ev'n  now,  this  night,  himself  must  die  ! 
Well  may  ye  look  to  yon  dim  tower, 

And  ask,  and  wond'ring  guess  what  means 
The  battle-cry  at  this  dead  hour  — 

Ah !  she  could  tell  you  —  she,  who  leans 
Unheeded  there,  pale  sunk,  aghast, 
With  brow  against  the  dew-cold  mast;  — 

Too  well  she  knows  —  her  more  than  life, 
Her  soul's  first  idol  and  its  last, 

Lies  bleeding  in  that  murd'rous  strife. 
But  see  —  what  moves  upon  the  height ? 
Some  signal !  —  'tis  a  torch's  light 


LA.LLA    R90JJH.  19^ 

What  i>ode*>  its  solitary  glare  ? 
In  gasping  silence  to*  "rd  ihe  Shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd  —  thine,  Hinda,  thine 

Fix  their  last  fading  life-beam*  there. 
'T  was  but  a  moment —  fierce  aud  L.gh 
Th  3  death-pile  blazed  into  tlie  sky, 
Ar  J  far  away,  o'er  rock  and  flood 

]  ts  melancholy  radiance  sent ; 
\\  :iile  Hafed,  like  a  vision  stood 
R.veal'd  before  the  burning  pyre, 
T  Jl,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

Shrined  in  its  own  grand  element ! 
"  'T  is  he  ! "  —  the  shudd'ring  maid  exclaims. 

But,  while  she  speaks,  he 's  seen  no  more ; 
High  burst  in  air  the  funeral  flames, 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er ! 

One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave ; 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 
Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze, 

And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave,  — 
Deep,  deep,  —  where  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  atrain ! 


Farewell  — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  • 
(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea,) 

No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 
More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  Spirit  in  thee 

Oh !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  Love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute  blowing 
And  hush'd  all  its  music,  and  wither'd  its  frame ! 

17 


194  LALLA    ROOKH. 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  naught  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  hei  tomb 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  tie  old, 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village-maid,  when  with  flow'rs  she  d.  esses 
Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 

Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 
She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  Hero !  forget  thee  — 

Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start, 
Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  Hero  she  '11  set  thee, 

Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart- 
Farewell  —  be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 

With  ev'ry  thing  beauteous  that  grows  in  the  deep 
Each  flow'r  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 

Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow-wreath'd  chamber 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept 

We  '11  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head ; 

We  '11  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are  sparkling 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 


LALLA    ROOKH.  195 

Farewell  —  farewell  —  until  Pity's  sweet  fountain 

Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 
They'll   weep  for  the  Chieftain  whc    died  on    that 
mountain, 
They  '11  weep  for  the  Maiden  whc  sleeps  In  this 
ware 


196 


The  singular  placidity  with  whicn  Fadladeen  had 
hstened,  during  the  latter  part  of  this  obnoxious  story, 
surprised  the  Princess  and  Feramorz  exceedingly ;  and 
even  inclined  towards  him  the  hearts  of  those  unsuspi- 
cious young  persons,  who  little  knew  the  source  of  a 
complacency  so  marvellous.  The  truth  was,  he  had 
been  organizing,  for  the  last  few  days,  a  most  notable 
plan  of  persecution  against  the  poet,  in  consequence 
of  snme  passages  that  had  fallen  from  him  on  the  sec- 
ond evening  of  recital,  —  which  appeared  to  this  worthy 
Chamberlain  to  contain  language  and  principles,  for 
which  nothing  short  of  the  summary  criticism  of  the 
Chabuk  would  be  advisable.  It  was  his  intention, 
therefore,  immediately  on  their  arrival  at  Cashmere,  to 
give  information  to  the  King  of  Bucharia  of  the  very 
dangerous  sentiments  of  his  minstrel ;  and  if,  unfor- 
tunately, that  monarch  did  not  act  with  suitable  v:'gor 
on  the  occasion,  (that  is,  if  he  did  not  give  the  Chabuk 
to  Feramorz,  and  a  place  to  Fadladeen,)  there  would  be 
an  end,  he  feared,  of  all  legitimate  government  in 
Bucharia.  He  could  not  help,  however,  auguring  better 
both  for  himself  and  the  cause  of  potentates  in  gen- 
eral ;  and  it  was  the  pleasure  arising  from  these 
mingled  anticipations  that  diffused  such  unusual  sat- 
isfaction through  his  features,  and  made  his  eyes  shine 
out  like  poppies  of  the  desert  over  the  wide  and  lifeless 
wilderness  of  that  countenance. 

Having  decided  upon  the  Poet's  chastisment  in  thia 
manner,  he  thought  it  but  humanity  to  spare  him  the 
minor  tortures  of  criticism.     According^,  when  they 


LALLA    ftOOKH  197 

tssemb  eJ  the  following  evening  in  the  pavilion,  and 
Lalla  Rookh  was  expecting  to  see  all  the  beauties  of 
her  bard  melt  away,  one  by  one,  in  the  acidity  of  crit- 
icism, like  pearls  in  the  cup  of  the  Egyptian  queen,  — 
ha  agreeably  disappointed  her,  by  merely  saying,  with 
an  ironical  smile,  that  the  merits  of  such  a  poein 
deserved  to  be  tried  at  a  much  higher  tribunal ;  and 
then  suddenly  passed  off  into  a  panegyric  upon  all 
Mussulman  sovereigns,  more  particularly  his  august 
and  Imperial  master,  Aurungzebe,  —  the  wisest  and 
best  of  the  descendants  of  Timur  —  who,  among  other 
great  things  he  had  done  for  mankind,  had  given  to 
him,  Fadladeen,  the  very  profitable  posts  of  Betel- 
carrier,  and  Taster  of  Sherbets  to  the  Emperor,  Chief 
Holder  of  the  Girdle  of  Beautiful  Forms,  and  Grand 
Nazir,  or  Chamberlain  of  the  Haram. 

They  were  now  not  far  from  that  Forbidden  River, 
beyond  which  no  pure  Hindoo  can  pass;  and  were 
reposing  for  a  time  in  the  rich  valley  of  Hussun  Abdaul, 
which  had  always  been  a  favorite  resting-place  of  the 
Emperors  in  their  annual  migration  to  Cashmere.  Here 
often  had  the  Light  of  the  Faith,  Jehan-Guire,  been 
known  to  wander  with  his  beloved  and  beautiful  Nour- 
mahal ;  and  here  would  Lalla  Rookh  have  been  happy 
to  remain  forever,  giving  up  the  throne  of  Bucharia  and 
the  world,  for  Feramorz  and  love  in  this  sweet  lonely 
valley.  But  the  time  was  now  fast  approaching  when 
she  must  see  him  no  longer,  —  or,  what  was  still  worse, 
behold  him  with  eyes  whose  every  look  belonged  to 
another ;  and  there  was  a  melancholy  preciousness  in 
these  last  moments,  which  made  her  heart  cling  to 
them  as  it  would  to  life.  During  the  latter  part  of  the 
journey,  indeed,  she  had  sunk  into  a  deep  sadness, 
from  which  nothing  but  the  presence  of  the  young 

17* 


198  LALLA     ROOKH. 

minstrel  could  awake  her.  Like  those  lamps  in  tombs, 
which  only  light  up  when  the  air  is  admitted,  it  wag 
only  at  his  approach  that  her  eye  became  smiling  and 
animated.  But  here,  in  this  dear  valley,  every  moment 
appeared  an  age  of  pleasure ;  she  saw  him  all  day,  and 
was,  therefore,  all  day  happy,  —  resembling,  she  o:\cn 
inought,  that  people  of  Zinge,  who  attribute  the 
unfading  cheerfulness  they  enjoy  to  one  genial  star 
that  rises  nightly  over  their-  heads. 

The  whole  party,  indeed,  seemed  in  their  liveliest 
mood  during  the  few  days  they  passed  in  this  delightful 
solitude.  The  young  attendants  of  the  Princess,  who 
were  here  allowed  a  much  freer  range  than  they  could 
safely  be  indulged  with  in  a  less  sequestered  place, 
ran  wild  among  the  gardens  and  bounded  through  the 
meadows  lightly  as  young  roes  over  the  aromatic  plains 
of  Tibet  While  Fadladeen,  in  addition  to  the  spiritual 
comfort  derived  by  him  from  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb 
of  the  saint  from  whom  the  valley  is  named,  had  also 
opportunities  of  indulging,  in  a  small  way,  his  taste  for 
victims,  by  putting  to  death  some  hundreds  of  those 
unfortunate  little  lizards,  which  all  pious  Mussulmans 
make  it  a  point  to  kill ;  —  taking  for  granted,  that  the 
manner  in  which  the  creature  hangs  its  head  is  meant 
as  a  mimicry  of  the  attitude  in  which  the  Faithful  say 
their  prayers. 

About  two  miles  from  Hussun  Abdaul  were  those 
Royal  Gardens,  which  had  grown  beautiful  under  the 
care  of  so  many  lovely  eyes,  and  were  beautiful  still 
though  those  eyes  could  see  them  no  longer.  Thifl 
place,  with  its  flowers  and  its  holy  silence,  interrupted 
only  by  the  dipping  of  the  wings  of  birds  in  its  marble 
basins  filled  with  the  pure  water  of  those  hills,  was  to 
Lolla  Rookh  all  that  her  heart  could  fancy  of  fragrance, 


LA  LLA     K00KH.  199 

coo  aess,  and  almost  heavenly  tranquility.  As  the 
Prophet  said  of  Damascus,  i:  it  was  too  delicious  ; "  — 
and  here,  in  listening1  to  the  sweet  voice  of  Feramorz, 
or  reading  in  his  eyes  what  yet  he  never  dared  to  te.* 
her,  the  most  exquisite  moments  of  her  whole  life  were 
passed.  One  evening,  when  they  had  been  talkirg  of 
the  Sultana  Nourmahal,  the  Light  of  the  Haram,  who 
had  so  often  wandered  among  these  flowers,  and  fed 
with  her  own  hands,  in  those  marble  basins,  the  small 
shining  fishes  of  which  she  was  so  fond,  the  youth,  in 
order  to  delay  the  moment  of  separation,  proposed  to 
recite  a  short  story,  or  rather  rhapsody,  of  which  this 
adored  Sultana  was  the  heroine.  It  related,  he  said,  to 
the  reconciliation  of  a  sort  of  lovers'  quarrel  which 
took  place  between  her  and  the  Emperor  during  a 
Feast  of  Roses  at  Cashmere  ;  and  would  remind  the 
Princess  of  that  difference  between  Haroun-al-E.aschid 
and  his  fair  mistress  ilarida,  which  was  so  happily 
made  up  by  the  soft  strains  of  the  musician,  Moussali, 
As  the  story  was  chiefly  to  be  told  in  song,  and  Fera- 
morz had  unluckily  forgotten  his  own  lute  in  the  valley, 
he  borrowed  the  vina  of  Lalla  Rookh's  Persian  slave, 
and  thus  oegan  •  — 


200 


Wno  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 
With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave, 

ts  temples,  and  grottoes,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their  wave  J 


Oh !  to  see  it  at  sunset,  —  when  warm  o'er  the  Lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  ling'ring  to  take 

A  last  look  at  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes  !  — 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming 

half  shown, 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 
Here  the  music  of  pray'r  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Here  the  Magian  his  urn,  full  of  perfume,  is  swinging 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is  ringing. 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight,  —  when  mellowly  shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines  ; 
When  the  water-falls  gleam,  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool,  shining  walks  where  the  young  pocpl? 

meet.  — 
Or  at  morn,  when  tha  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  call'd  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  if  but  just  born  of  the  Sun. 
When  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance  is  up  with  the  day 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers  stealing  away ; 


LALLA    ROOKH.  201 

And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees,  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  radiance  unfurl'd, 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes 

Sublime,  from  that  Valley  of  bliss  to  the  world ' 

But  never  yet,  by  night  or  day, 
In  dew  of  spring  or  summer's  ray, 
Did  the  sweet  Valley  shine  so  gay 
As  now  it  shines  —  all  love  and  light, 
Visions  by  day  and  feasts  by  night ! 
A  happier  smile  illumes  each  brow, 

With  quicker  spread  each  heart  uncloseaf 
And  all  is  ecstacy,  —  for  now 

The  Valley  holds  its  Feast  of  Roses  ; 
The  joyous  time,  when  pleasures  pour 
Profusely  round  and,  in  their  shower, 
Hearts  open,  like  the  Season's  Rose,  — 

The  flow'ret  of  a  hundred  leaves, 
Expanding  while  the  dew-fall  flows, 

And  every  leaf  its  balm  receives. 

T  was  when  the  hour  of  evening  came  ' 

Upon  the  Lake,  serene  and  cool, 
When  Day  had  hid  his  sultry  flame 
Behind  the  palms  of  Baramoule, 
When  maids  began  to  lift  their  heads, 
Refresh'd  from  their  embroider'd  beds, 
Where  they  had  slept  the  sun  away 
And  waked  to  moonlight  and  to  plav. 
All  were  abroad  —  the  busiest  hive 
On  Bela's  hills  is  less  alive, 


202  LALLA     ROOKH. 

When  saffron-beds  are  full  in  fluw'r, 
Than  look'd  the  Valley  in  that  hour. 
A  thousand  restless  torches  play'd 
Through  every  grove  and  island  shade , 
A  thousand  sparkling  lamps  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret ; 
And  fields  and  pathways,  far  and  near, 
Were  lighted  by  a  blaze  so  clear, 
That  you  could  see,  in  wand'ring  round, 
The  smallest  rose-leaf  on  the  ground. 
Yet  did  the  maids  and  matrons  leave 
Their  veils  at  home,  that  brilliant  eve ; 
And  there  were  glancing  eyes  about, 
And  cheeks,  that  would  not  dare  shine  out 
In  open  day,  but  thought  they  might 
Look  lovely  then,  because  't  was  night. 
And  all  was  free,  and  M-andering, 

And  all  exclaim'd  to  all  they  met, 
That  never  did  the  summer  bring 

So  gay  a  Feast  of  Roses  yet ; 
The  moon  had  never  shed  a  light 

So  clear  as  that  which  bless'd  them  there 
The  roses  ne'er  shone  half  so  bright, 

Nor  they  themselves  look'd  half  so  fair. 


And  what  a  wilderness  of  flow'rs  ! 
It  seem'd  as  though  from  all  the  bow'ra 
And  fairest  fields  of  all  the  year, 
The  mingled  spoil  were  scatter'd  here. 
The  Lake,  too,  like  a  garden  breathes, 

With  the  rich  buds  that  o'er  it  lie,  — 
As  if  a  shower  of  fairy  wreaths 

Had  fall'n  upon  it  from  the  sky ' 


LALLA    ROOKH.  203 

And  then  the  sounds  of  joy,  —  the  beat 

Of  tabors  and  of  dancing  feet ;  — 

The  minaret-crier's  chant  of  glee 

Sung  from  his  lighted  gallery, 

And  answer'd  by  a  ziraleet 

From  neighboring  Haram,  wild  and  sweet ,- 

The  merry  laughter,  echoing 

From  gardens,  where  the  silken  swing 

Wafts  some  delighted  girl  above 

The  top  leaves  of  the  orange-grove  ; 

Or,  from  those  infant  groups  at  play 

Among  the  tents  that  line  the  way, 

Flinging,  unawed  by  slave  or  mother, 

Handfuls  of  roses  at  each  other.  — 

Then,  the  sounds  from  the  Lake,  —  the  low  whisp'rino 

in  boats, 
As  they  shoot  through  the  moonlight ;  —  the  dipping 

of  oars, 
And  the  wild,  airy  warbling  that  ev'rywhere  floats, 
Through  the  groves,  round  the  islands,  as  if  all  the 

shores, 
Like  those  of  Kathay,  utter'd  music,  and  gave 
An  answer  in  song  to  the  kiss  of  each  wave. 
But  the  gentlest  of  all  are  those  sounds,  full  of  feeling, 
That  soft  from  the  lute  of  some  lover  are  stealing, — 
Some  lover,  who  knows  all  the  heart-touching  power 
Of  a  lute  and  a  sigli  in  this  magical  hour. 
Oh !  best  of  delights  as  it  ev'rywhere  is 
Tc  be  near  the  loved  One,  —  what  a  rapture  is  his 
Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  may  glide 
O'er  the  Lake  of  Cashmere,  with  that  One  by  his  side 
If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear, 
Think,  think  what  a  Heav'n  she  must  make  of  Cashmere 


204  LALLA    ROOKH. 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar, 

When  from  pow'r  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of  war 

He  flew  to  that  Valley,  forgetting  them  all 

With  the  Light  of  the  Haram,  his  young  Nourmahal, 

When  free  and  uncrown'd  as  the  Conqueror  roved 

By  the  banks  of  that  lake,  with  his  only  beloved, 

He  saw,  in  the  wreaths  she  would  playfully  snatch 

From  the  hedges,  a  glory  his  crown  could  not  match, 

And  preferr'd  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet  that  curl'd 

Down  her  exquisite  neck  to  the  throne  of  the  world. 


There 's  a  beauty,  for  ever  unchangingly  bright, 
LD<e  the  long,  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer-day's  light, 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  ivas  not  the  beauty  —  oh,  nothing  like  this, 
That  to  young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss ! 
But  the  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lip  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the  eyes 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  hath  of  Heav'n  in  his  dreams. 
When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace, 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face  ! 
And  when  angry,  —  for  ev'n  in  the  tranquillest  climes 
Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  blossoms  sometimes  — 
The  short,  passing  anger  but  seem'd  to  awaken 
New  beauty,  like  flow'rs  that  are  sweetest  when  shaken. 
If  tenderness  touch'd  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 
At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heav'nlier  dye, 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  revealings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light  of  her  feelings 


LAI/LA    ROOKH.  20ii 

Then  her  mirth — oh !  'twas  sportive  as  ever  took  wing 
From   the  heart  with  a  bnrst,  like  the  wild  bird  in 

spring ; 
Illumed  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages, 
Yet  playful  as  Peris  just  loosed  from  their  cages. 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  control 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her  soul, 
And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  discover 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eye,  for  she  brighten'd  all  over,  — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon, 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples  and  laughs  in  the  sun. 
Such,  such  were  the  peerless  enchantments,  that  gave 
Nourmahal  the  proud  Lord  of  the  East  for  her  slave : 
And  though  bright  was  his  Haram,  —  a  living  parterre 
Of  flow'rs  of  this  planet  —  though  treasures  were  there, 
For  which  Soliman's  self  might  have  giv'n  all  the  store 
That  the  navy  from  Ophir  e'er  wing'd  to  his  shore, 
Yet  dim  before  her  were  the  smiles  of  them  all, 
And  the  Light  of  his  Haram  was  young  Nourmahal ! 


But  where  is  she  now,  this  night  of  joy, 

When  bliss  is  every  heart's  employ  ?  — 

When  all  around  her  is  so  bright, 

So  like  the  visions  of  a  trance, 

That  one  might  think,  who  came  by  chance 

Into  the  vale  this  happy  night, 

He  saw  that  City  of  Delight 

In  Fairy-land,  whose  streets  and  tow'rs 

Are  made  of  gems,  and  light,  and  flow'rs ! 

Where  is  the  loved  Sultana  ?  where, 

When  mirth  brings  out  the  young  and  fair 

Does  she,  the  fairest,  hide  her  brow, 

In  melancholy  stillness  now  ? 
;8 


20<5  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Alas !  —  how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  ! 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 

That  stood  the  storm,  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off, 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity ! 

A  something,  light  as  air  —  a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken  — 
Oh !  love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin ; 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day ; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  clouds,  —  or  like  the  stream, 
That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 
Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below, 

Breaks  into  floods,  that  part  for  ever 


Oh,  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  Love, 
Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound, 

As  in  the  Fields  of  Bliss  above 
He  sits,  with  flow'rets  fetter'd  round ;  ■ 

Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings. 

Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings  ; 


1ALLA    ROOKH.  20^ 

For  ev'n  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light. 
Like  that  celestial  bird,  —  whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  Eastern  skies,  — 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when  at  rest, 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies  ! 

Some  difFrence,  of  this  dang'rous  kind,  — 
By  which,  though  light,  the  links  that  bind 
The  fondest  hearts  may  soon  be  riv'n ; 
Some  shadow  in  Love's  summer  heav'n, 
Which,  though  a  fleecy  speck  at  first, 
May  yet  in  awful  thunder  burst ;  — 
Such  cloud  it  is,  that  now  hangs  over 
The  heart  of  the  Imperial  Lover, 
And  far  hath  banish'd  from  his  sight 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light ! 
Hence  is  it,  on  this  happy  night, 
When  Pleasure  through  the  fields  and  groves 
Has  let  loose  all  her  world  of  loves, 
And  every  heart  has  found  its  own, 
He  wanders,  joyless  and  alone, 
And  weary  as  that  bird  of  Thrace, 
Whose  pinion  knows  no  resting-place. 

In  vain  the  loveliest  cheeks  and  eyes 
This  Eden  of  the  Earth  supplies 

Come  crowding  round  —  the  cheeks  are  pale 
The  eyes  are  dim :  —  though  rich  the  spot 
With  every  flow'r  this  earth  has  got, 

What  is    ;  to  the  nightingale, 
If  there  his  darling  rose  is  not  ? 
In  vain  the  Valley's  smiling  throng 
Worship  him,  as  he  moveu  along ; 


808  LALL.1    ROOKH. 

He  heeds  them  not  —  one  smile  of  hers 
Is  worth  a  world  of  worshippers. 
They  but  the  Star's  adorers  are, 
She  is  the  Heav'n  that  lights  the  Star ! 


Hence  is  it,  too,  that  Nourmahal, 
Amid  the  luxuries  of  this  hour 
Far  from  the  joyous  festival. 

Sits  in  her  own  sequester' d  bow'r, 
With  no  one  near,  to  sooth  or  aid, 
But  that  inspired  and  wondrous  maid, 
Namouna,  the  Enchantress  ;  —  one, 
O'er  whom  Ins  race  the  golden  sun 
For  unremember'd  years  has  run. 
Yet  never  saw  her  blooming  brow 
Younger  or  fairer  than  't  is  now. 
Nay,  rather,  —  as  the  west  wind's  sigh 
Freshens  the  flow'r  it  passes  by,  — 
Time's  wing  but  seem'd,  in  stealing  o'er, 
To  leave  her  lovelier  than  before. 
Yet  on  her  smiles  a  sadness  hung, 
And  when,  as  oft,  she  spoke  or  sung 
Of  other  worlds,  there  came  a  light 
From  her  dark  eyes  so  strangely  bright, 
That  all  believed  nor  man  nor  earth 
Were  conscious  of  Namouna's  birth ! 

All  spells  and  talismans  she  knew, 
From  the  great  Mantra,  which  around 

The  Air's  sublimer  Spirits  drew, 
To  the  gold  gems  of  Afric,  bounc 

Upon  the  wand'ring  Arab's  arm, 

To  keep  him  from  the  Silum's  harm 


LALLA    ROOKH.  209 

And  she  had  pledged  her  powerful  art,  — 
Pledged  it  with  all  the  zeal  and  heart 
Of  one  who  knew,  though  high  her  sphere, 
What 't  was  to  lose  a  love  so  dear,  — 
To  find  some  spell  that  should  recall 
Her  Selim's  smile  to  Nourmahal ! 


'T  was  midnight  —  through  the  lattice,  wreath'si 

With  woodbine,  many  a  perfume  breathed 

From  plants  that  wake  when  others  sleep, 

From  timid  jasmine  buds,  that  keep 

Their  odor  to  themselves  all  day, 

But,  when  the  sunlight  dies  away, 

Let  the  delicious  secret  out 

To  every  breeze  that  roams  about ;  — 

When  thus  Namouna :  —  "  'T  is  the  hour 

That  scatters  spells  on  herb  and  flow'r, 

And  garlands  might  be  gather'd  now, 

That,  twined  around  the  sleeper's  brow. 

Would  make  him  dream  of  such  delights, 

Such  miracles  and  dazzling  sights, 

As  Genii  of  the  Sun  behold, 

At  evening,  from  their  tents  of  gold 

Upon  th'  horizon  —  where  they  play 

Till  twilight  comes,  and,  ray  by  ray, 

Their  sunny  mansions  melt  away. 

Now,  too,  a  chaplet  might  be  wreath'd 

Of  buds  o'er  which  the  moon  has  breathed, 

Which  worn  by  her,  whose  love  has  stray'd, 

Might  bring  some  Peri  from  the  skies, 
Some  sprite,  whose  very  soul  is  made 

Of  flow'rets'  breaths  and  lovers'  sighs 
And  who  might  tell " 

18* 


110  LALLA    ROOKH. 

"  For  me,  for  me," 
Cried  Nourmahal  impatiently,  — 
"  Oh  !  twine  that  wreath  for  me  to-night" 
Then,  rapidly,  with  foot  as  light 
As  the  young  musk-roe's,  out  she  flew, 
To  cull  each  shining  leaf  that  grew 
Beneath  the  moonlight's  hallowing  beams. 
For  this  enchanted  Wreath  of  Dreams 
Anemones  and  Seas  of  Gold, 

And  new  -blown  lilies  of  the  river, 
And  those  sweet  flow'rets,  that  unfold 

Their  buds  on  Camadeva's  quiver ;  — 
The  tube-rose,  with  her  silv'ry  light. 

That  in  the  Gardens  of  Malay 
Is  call'd  the  Mistress  of  the  Night, 
So  like  a  bride,  scented  and  bright, 

She  comes  out  when  the  sun's  away;  — 
Amaranths,  such  as  crown  the  maids 
That  wander  through  Zamara's  shades;  — 
And  the  white  moon-flow'r,  as  it  shows, 
On  Serendib's  high  crags,  to  those 
Who  near  the  isle  at  evening  sail, 
Scenting  her  clove-trees  in  the  gale  ; 
In  short,  all  flow'rets  and  all  plants, 

From  the  divine  Amrita  tree, 
That  blesses  heaven's  inhabitants 

With  fruits  of  immortality, 
Down  to  the  basil  tuft,  that  waves, 
its  fragrant  blossom  over  graves, 

And  to  the  humble  rosemary, 
Whose  sweeu  so  thanklessly  are  shed 
To  scent  the  desert  and  the  dead :  — 
All  in  that  garden  bloom,  and  all 
Are  gather'd  by  young  Nourmahal, 


tALLA    R00KH. 


21i 


Who  heaps  her  hasket  with  the  flow'rs 
And  leaves,  till  they  can  hold  no  more  ; 

Then  to  Namouna  flies,  and  show'rs 
Upon  her  lap  the  shining  store. 

With  what  delight  th'  Enchantress  views 

So  many  buds,  bathed  with  the  dews 

And  beams  of  that  bless'd  hour !  —  her  glance 

Spoke  something,  past  all  mortal  pleasures, 
As,  in  a  kind  of  holy  trance, 

She  hung  above  those  fragrant  treasures, 
Bending  to  drink  their  balmy  airs, 
As  if  she  mix'd  her  soul  with  theirs. 
And  't  was,  indeed,  the  perfume  shed 
From  flow'rs  and  scented  flame,  that  fed 
Her  charmed  life  —  for  none  had  e'er 
Beheld  her  taste  of  mortal  fare, 
Nor  ever  in  aught  earthly  dip, 
But  the  morn's  dew,  her  roseate  lip 
Fill'd  with  the  cool,  inspiring  smell, 
Th'  Enchantress  now  begins  her  spell, 
Thus  singing  as  she  winds  and  weaves 
In  mystic  form  the  glittering  leaves  :  — 

I  know  where  the  winged  visions  dwell 

That  around  the  night-bed  play ; 
I  know  each  herb  and  flow'ret's  bell, 
Where  they  hide  their  wings  by  day 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

The  image  of  love,  that  nightly  flies 
To  visit  the  bashful  maid, 


H2  LALLA     R00KH. 

Steals  from  the  jasmine  flower,  that  sighs 

Its  soul,  like  her,  in  the  shade. 
The  dieam  of  a  future,  happier  hour, 

That  alights  on  misery's  brow, 
Springs  out  of  the  silvery  almond-flow 'r, 
That  blooms  on  a  leafless  bough. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fada. 

The  visions,  that  oft  to  worldly  eyes 

The  glitter  of  mines  unfold, 
Inhabit  the  mountain-herb,  that  dyes 

The  tooth  of  the  fawn  like  gold. 
The  phantom  shapes  —  oh  touch  not  them  — 

That  appal  the  murd'rer's  sight, 
Lurk  in  the  fleshy  mandrake's  stem, 

That  shrieks,  when  pluck'd  at  night ! 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade, 

The  dream  of  the  injured,  patient  mind, 
That  smiles  with  the  wrongs  of  men, 
Is  found  in  the  bruised  and  wounded  rind 
Of  the  cinnamon,  sweetest  then. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade, 

No  sooner  was  the  flow'ry  crown 
Placed  on  her  head,  than  sleep  came  down, 
Gently  as  nights  of  summer  fall, 
Upon  the  lids  of  Nourmahal ;  — 


LALLA    ROOKH. 

And,  suddenly,  a  tuneful  breeze, 
As  full  of  small,  rich  harmonies 
As  ever  wind,  that  o'er  the  tents 
Of  Azab  blew,  was  full  of  scents, 
Steals  on  her  ear,  and  floats  and  swells, 

Like  the  first  air  of  morning  creeping 
Into  those  wreathy,  Red  Sea  shells, 

Where  Love  himself,  of  old,  lay  sleeping ; 
And  now  a  Spirit  form'd,  't  would  seem. 

Of  music  and  of  light,  —  so  fair, 
So  brilliantly  his  features  beam, 

And  such  a  sound  is  in  the  air 
Of  sweetness  when  he  waves  his  wings, — 
Hovers  around  her,  and  thus  sings  : 


From  Chindara's  warbling  fount  I  come, 

Call'd  by  that  moonlight  garland's  spell ; 
From  Chindara's  fount,  my  fairy  home, 

Where  in  music,  morn  and  night,  I  dwelL 
Where  lutes  in  the  air  are  heard  about, 

And  voices  are  singing  the  whole  day  long 
And  every  sigh  the  heart  breathes  out 
Is  turn'd,  as  it  leaves  the  lips,  to  song : 
Hither  I  come 
From  my  fairy  home, 
And  if  there 's  a  magic  in  Music's  strain, 
I  swear  by  the  breath 
Of  that  moonlight  wreath, 
Thy  Lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 


For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats, 
And  mine  are  the  murm'ring,  dying  notes, 


213 


214  LALLA    ROOKH. 

That  fa]]  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea. 
And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly :  — 
And  the  passionate  strain  that,  deeply  goinc, 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through, 
As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 

Ruffles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too. 


Mine  is  the  charm,  whose  mystic  sway 
The  Spirits  of  past  Delight  obey  ;  — 
Let  but  the  tuneful  talisman  sound, 
And  they  come,  like  genii,  hov'ring  round. 
And  mine  is  the  gentle  song  that  bears 

From  soul  to  soul,  the  wishes  of  love, 
As  a  bird,  that  wafts  through  genial  airs 

The  cinnamon-seed  from  grove  to  grove. 

'T  is  I  that  mingle  in  one  sweet  measure 
The  past,  the  present,  and  future  of  pleasure ; 
When  Memory  links  the  tone  that  is  gone 

With  the  blissful  tone  that 's  still  in  the  ear 
And  Hope  from  a  heavenly  note  flies  on 

To  a  note  more  heavenly  still  that  is  near. 

The  warrior's  heart,  when  touch'd  by  me, 
Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 
As  his  own  white  plume,  that  high  amid  death 
Through  the  field  has  shone — yet  moves  with 

a  breath ! 
And,  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  Beauty  glisten, 

When  Music  has  reach'd  her  inward  soul, 
Like  the  silent  stars,  that  wink  and  listen 

While  Heaven's  eternal  melodies  roll 


LALLA    ROOKII 

So  hither  I  come 

From  my  fairy  home, 
And  if  there 's  a  magic  in  Music's  strain 

I  swear  by  the  breath 

Of  that  moonlight  wreath, 
Thy  lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 


'T  is  dawn  —  at  least  that  earlier  dawn, 
Whose  glimpses  are  again  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again 
And  Nourmahal  is  up,  and  trying 

The  wonders  of  her  lute,  whose  strings  — 
Oli  bliss !  —  now  murmur  like  the  sighing 

From  that  ambrosial  Spirit's  wings. 
And  then,  her  voice  —  't  is  more  than  human 

Never,  till  now,  had  it  been  given 
To  lips  of  any  mortal  woman 

To  utter  notes  so  fresh  from  heaven ; 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  angel  sighs, 

When  angel  sighs  are  most  divine.  — 
"  Oh !  let  it  last  till  night,"  she  cries, 
"  And  he  is  more  than  ever  mine." 
And  hourly  she  renews  the  lay, 
.  So  fearful  lest  its  heav'nly  sweetness 
Should,  ere  the  evening,  fade  away,  — 

For  things  so  heav'nly  have  such  fleetnea* 
But,  far  from  fading,  it  but  grows 
Richer,  diviner  as  it  flows  ; 
Till  rapt  she  dwells  on  every  string, 

And  pours  again  each  sound  along, 
Like  echo,  lost  and  languishing, 

In  love  with  her  own  wondrous  song. 


2i5 


216  LALLA    ROOKH. 

That  evening-,  (trusting-  that  his  soul 

Mig-ht  be  from  haunting  love  released 
By  mirth,  by  music,  and  the  bowl,) 

Th'  Imperial  Selim  held  a  feast 
In  h's  magnificent  Shalimar :  — 
In  whose  Saloons,  when  the  first  star 
Of  evening  o'er  the  waters  trembled, 
The  Valley's  loveliest  all  assembled ; 
All  the  bright  creatures  that,  like  dreams, 
Glide  throug-h  its  foliage,  and  drink  beams 
Of  beauty  from  its  founts  and  streams  ; 
And  all  those  wand'ring  minstrel-maids, 
Who  leave  —  how  can  they  leave?  —  the  shades 
Of  that  dear  Valley,  and  are  found 

Singing  in  gardens  of  the  South 
Those  songs,  that  ne'er  so  sweetly  sound 

As  from  a  young  Cashmerian's  mouth. 

There,  too,  the  Haram's  inmates  smile  ;  — 

Maids  from  the  West,  with  sun-bright  hair, 
And  from  the  Gardens  of  the  Nile, 

Delicate  as  the  roses  there  ;  — 
Daughters  of  Love  from  Cyprus'  rocks, 
With  Paphian  diamonds  in  their  locks  :  — 
Like  Peri  forms,  such  as  they  are 
On  the  gold  meads  of  Candahar ; 
And  they,  before  whose  sleepy  eyes, 

In  their  own  bright  Kathaian  bow'rs, 
Sparkle  such  rainbow  butterflies, 

That  they  might  fancy  the  rich  flow'rs, 
That  round  them  in  the  sun  lay  sighing, 
Had  been  by  magic  all  set  flying. 
Every  thing  young,  every  thing  fair 
From  East  and  West  is  blushing  there, 


LALLA    ROOKK.  217 

Except  —  except  —  oh,  Nourinahal ! 
Thou  loveliest,  dearest  of  them  all, 
The  one,  whose  smile  shone  out  alone, 
Amidst  a  world  the  only  one  ; 
Whose  light,  among  so  many  lights, 
Was  like  that  star  on  starry  nights, 
The  seaman  singles  from  the  sky, 
To  steer  his  bark  for  ever  by  ! 
Thou  wert  not  there  —  so  Selim  thought, 

And  even'  thing  seem'd  drear  without  theB 
But,  ah  !  thou  wert,  thou  wert, —  and  brought 

Thy  charm  of  song  all  fresh  about  thee 
Mingling  unnoticed  with  a  band 
Of  lutanists  from  many  a  land, 
And  veil'd  by  such  a  mask  as  shades 
The  features  of  young  Arab  maids,  — 
A  mask  that  leaves  but  one  eye  free, 
To  do  its  best  in  witchery, — 
She  roved,  with  beating  heart,  around, 

And  waited,  trembling,  for  the  minute, 
When  she  might  try  if  still  the  sound 

Of  her  loved  lute  had  magic  in  it. 


The  board  was  spread  with  fruits  and  win©  j 
With  grapes  of  gold,  like  those  that  shine 
On  Casbin's  hills :  —  pomegranates  full 

Of  melting  sweetness,  and  the  pears., 
And  sunniest  apples  that  Caubul 

In  all  its  thousand  gardens  bears ;  — 
Plantains,  the  golden  and  the  green, 
Malaya's  nectar'd  mangusteen ; 
Prunes  of  Bokhara,  and  sweet  nuts 

From  the  far  groves  of  Sam  arc  and 


918  LALLA    ROOKH, 

And  Basra  dates,  and  apricots, 

Seed  of  the  Sun,  from  Iran's  land ;  — 
With  rich  conserve  of  Visna  cherries, 
Of  orange  flowers,  and  of  those  berries 
That,  wild  and  fresh,  the  young  gazelles 
Feed  on  in  Erac's  rocky  dells. 
All  these  in  richest  vases  smile, 

In  baskets  of  pure  sandal-wood, 
And  urns  of  porcelain  from  that  isle 

Sunk  underneath  the  Indian  flood, 
Whence  oft  the  lucky  diver  brings 
Vases  to  grace  the  halls  of  kings. 
Wines,  too,  of  every  clime  and  hue, 
Around  their  liquid  lustre  threw ; 
Amber  Rosolli,  —  the  bright  dew 
From  vineyards  of  the  Green-Sea  gushing 
And  Shiraz  whie,  that  richly  ran 

As  if  that  jewel,  large  and  rare, 
The  ruby  for  which  Kublai  Khan 
Offer'd  a  city's  wealth,  was  blushing, 

Melted  within  the  goblets  there ! 

And  amply  Selim  quaffs  of  each, 

And  seems  resolved  the  flood  shall  reach 

His  inward  heart,  —  shedding  around 

A  genial  deluge,  as  they  run, 
That  soon  shall  leave  no  spot  undrown'd, 

For  Lcve  to  rest  his  wings  upon. 
He  little  knew  how  well  the  boy 

Can  float  upon  a  goblet's  streams, 
Lighting  them  with  his  smile  of  joy ;  — 

As  bards  have  seen  him  in  their  dreams, 
Down  the  blue  Ganges  laughing  glide 

Upon  a  rosy  lotus  wreath, 


LALLA     ROOKH.  21J* 

Catching  new  lustre  from  the  tide 
That  with  his  image  shone  beneath. 

But  what  are  cups,  without  the  aid 
Of  song  to  speed  them  as  they  flow  ? 

And  see  —  a  lovely  Georgian  maid, 
With  all  the  bloom,  the  freshen'd  glow 

Of  her  own  country  maidens'  looks, 

When  warm  they  rise  from  Teflis'  brooks ; 

And  with  an  eye,  whose  restless  ray, 
Full,  floating,  dark  —  oh,  he  who  knows 

His  heart  is  weak,  of  Heav'n  should  pray 
To  guard  him  from  such  eyes  as  those !  — 
With  a  voluptuous  wildness  flings 
Her  snowy  hand  across  the  strings 
Of  a  syrinda,  and  thus  sings :  — 

Come  hither,  come  hither  —  by  night  and  by  day, 
We  linger  in  pleasures  that  never  are  gone  ; 

Like  the  waves  of  the  summer,  as  one  dies  away, 
Another  as  sweet  and  as  shining  comes  on. 

And  the  love  that  is  o'er,  in  expiring,  gives  birth 
To  a  new  one  as  warm,  as  unequall'd  in  bliss ; 

And,  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

Here  maidens  are  sighing,  and  fragrant  their  sigh 
As  the  flow'r  of  the  Amra  just  oped  by  a  bee ; 

And  precious  their  tears  as  that  rain  from  the  sky, 
Which  turns  into  pearls  as  it  falls  in  the  sea. 

Oh!  think  what  the  kiss  and  the  smile  must  be  worth 
When  the  sigh  and  the  tear  are  so  perfect  in  bliss 

And  own  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 


220  .LALLA    ROOKH. 

Here  sparkles  the  nectar,  that,  hallow'd  oy  love, 

Could  draw  down  those  angels  of  old  from  their  sphere 

Who  for  wine  of  this  earth  left  the  fountains  above, 
And  forgot  heav'n's  stars  for  the  eyes  we  have  here 

And,  bless'd  with  the  odor  our  goblet  gives  forth, 
What  Spirit  the  sweets  of  his  Eden  would  miss  ? 

For,  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

The  Georgian's  song  was  scaicely  mute, 

When  the  same  measure,  sound  for  sounl, 
Was  caught  up  by  another  lute, 

And  so  divinely  breathed  around, 
That  all  stood  husli'd  and  wondering. 

And  turn'd  and  look'd  into  the  ah, 
As  if  they  thought  to  see  the  wing 

Of  Israfil,  the  angel,  there ;  — 
So  pow'rfully  on  ev'ry  soul 
That  new,  enchanted  measure  stole. 
While  now  a  voice,  sweet  as  the  note 
Of  the  charm'd  lute,  was  heard  to  float 
Along  its  chords,  and  so  entwine 

Its  sounds  with  theirs,  that  none  knew  whethei 
The  voice  or  lute  was  most  divine, 

So  wondrously  they  went  together  :  — 

There  's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told, 
When  two,  that  are  link'd  in  one  heav'nly  tie, 

With  heart  never  changing,  and  brow  never  cold, 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die ! 

One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 
Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering  bliss 

And,  oh !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 


LALLA     ROOKH.  22i 

T  was  not  the  air,  't  was  not  the  words, 
But  that  deep  magic  in  the  chords 
And  in  the  lips,  that  gave  such  pow'r 
As  Music  knew  not  till  that  hour. 
At  once  a  hundred  voices  said, 
" Tt  is  the  mask'd  Arabian  maid! " 
While  Selim,  who  had  felt  the  strain 
Deepest  of  any,  and  had  lain 
Some  minutes  rapt,  as  in  a  trance, 

After  the  fairy  sounds  were  o'er, 
Too  inly  touch'd  for  utterance, 

Now  motion'd  with  his  hand  for  more. 


Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But,  oh !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without  ? 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
Th'  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flow'ring  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 

The  silv'ry-footed  antelope 

As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 

As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 


Then  come  —  thy  Arab  maid  will  be 

The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree, 

The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 

With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness 
19* 


223  LALLA     R00XH. 

Oh !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart,  -— 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes, 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then  ' 

So  came  thy  ev'ry  glance  and  tone 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 

Then  fly  with  me,  —  if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me, 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee,  — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first 't  is  by  the  lapwing  found. 

But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place ,  — 

Then,  fare  thee  well  —  I  'd  rather  ma^-e 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine r 


LALLA    ROOKH.  223 

There  was  a  pathos  in  this  lay, 

That,  ev'n  without  enchantment's  art, 
Would  instantly  have  found  its  way 

Deep  into  Selim's  burning  heart , 
But,  breathing,  as  it  did,  a  tone 
To  eartldy  lutes  and  lips  unknown ; 
With  every  chord  fresh  from  the  toucn 
Of  Music's  Spirit  —  't  was  too  much ! 
Starting,  he  dash'd  away  the  cup,  — 

Which,  all  the  time  of  this  sweet  air, 
His  hand  had  held,  untasted,  up, 

As  if  't  were  fix'd  by  magic  there,  -  - 
And  naming  her,  so  long  unnamed, 
So  long  unseen,  wildly  exclaim'd, 
"  Oh  Nourmahal !  oh  Nourmahal ! 

Hadst  thou  but  sung  this  witching  strain, 
I  could  forget  —  forgive  thee  all, 

And  never  leave  those  eyes  again." 

The  mask  is  off — the  charm  is  wrought  — 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught, 
In  blushes,  more  than  ever  bright, 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light ! 
And  well  do  vanish'd  frowns  enhance 
The  charm  of  every  brighten'd  glance  ; 
And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smile 
For  having  lost  its  light  awhile  ; 
And,  happier  now  for  all  her  sighs, 

As  on  his  arm  her  head  reposes, 
She  whispers  him,  with  laughing  eyes, 

"Renumber,  love,  the  Feast  of  Roses'* 


H 


Fadlapeen,  at  the  conclusion  of  this  light  rhapsody 
took  occasion  to  sum  up  his  opinion  of  the  young  Cash 
morian's  poetry,  —  of  which,  he  trusted,  they  had  that 
evening  heard  the  last.  Having  recapitulated  the 
epithets,  "  frivolous  "  —  "  inharmonious  "  —  "  nonsensi- 
cal," he  proceeded  to  say  that,  viewing  it  in  the  most 
favorable  light,  it  resembled  one  of  those  Maldivian 
boats,  to  which  the  Princess  had  alluded  in  the  relation 
of  her  dream,  —  a  slight,  gilded  thing,  sent  adrift  with- 
out rudder  or  ballast,  and  with  nothing  but  vapid  sweets 
and  faded  flowers  on  board.  The  profusion,  indeed  of 
flowers  and  birds,  which  this  poet  had  ready  on  all 
occasions,  —  not  to  mention  dews,  gems,  &c.  —  was  a 
most  oppressive  kind  of  opulence  to  his  hearers ;  and 
had  the  unlucky  effect  of  giving  to  his  style  all  the 
glitter  of  the  flower-garden  without  its  method,  and  all 
the  flutter  of  the  aviary  without  its  song.  In  addition 
to  this,  he  chose  his  subjects  badly,  and  was  always 
most  inspired  by  the  worst  parts  of  thern.  The  charms 
of  paganism,  the  merits  of  rebellion,  —  these  were  the 
themes  honored  with  his  particular  enthusiasm ;  and,  in 
the  poem  just  recited,  one  of  his  most  palitable  passages 
was  in  praise  of  that  beverage  of  the  Unfaithful,  wine ; 
—  "  being,  perhaps,"  said  he,  relaxing  into  a  smile,  as 
conscious  of  his  own  character  in  the  Haram  on  this 
point,  "  one  of  those  bards  whose  fancy  owes  all  its 
illumination  to  the  grape,  like  that  painted  porcelain, 
bo  curious  and  so  rare,  whose  images  are  only  visible 
when  liquor  is  poured  into  it."  Upon  the  whole,  it  was 
hi«  opinion,  from  the  specimens  which  they  had  heard* 


LALLA     ROOKH.  225 

and  whicli,  he  begged  to  say,  were  the  most  tiresome 
part  of  the  journey,  that — whatever  other  merits  this 
well-dressed  young  gentleman  might  possess  —  poetry 
was  by  no  means  his  proper  avocation  ;  "  and  indeed," 
concluded  the  critic,  "  from  his  fondness  for  flowers 
and  for  birds,  I  would  venture  to  suggest  that  a  flcrist 
or  a  bird-catcher  is  a  much  more  suitable  calling  for 
him  than  a  poet." 

They  had  now  begun  to  ascend  those  barren  moun- 
tains, which  separate  Cashmere  from  the  rest  of  India ; 
and,  as  the  heats  were  intolerable,  and  the  time  of  their 
encampments  limited  to  the  few  hours  necessary  for 
refreshment  and  repose,  there  was  an  end  to  all  their 
delightful  evenings,  and  Lalla  Rookh  saw  no  more  of 
Feramorz.  She  now  felt  that  her  short  dream  of  hap- 
piness was  over,  and  that  she  had  nothing  but  the 
recollection  of  its  few  blissful  hours,  like  the  one 
draught  of  sweet  water  that  serves  the  camel  across 
the  wilderness,  to  be  her  heart's  refresliment  during  the 
dreary  waste  of  life  that  was  before  her.  The  blight 
that  had  fallen  upon  her  spirits  soon  found  its  way  to 
her  cheek,  and  her  ladies  saw  with  regret  —  though  not 
without  some  suspicion  of  the  cause  —  that  the  beauty 
of  their  mistress,  of  which  they  were  almost  as  proud 
as  of  their  own,  was  fast  vanishing  away  at  the  very 
moment  of  all  when  she  had  most  need  of  it  What 
must  the  King  of  Bucharia  feel,  when,  instead  of  tho 
lively  and  beautiful  Lalla  Rookh,  whom  the  poets  of 
Delhi  had  described  as  more  perfect  than  the  divinest 
images  in  the  house  of  Azor,  he  should  receive  a  pale 
and  inanimate  victim,  upon  whose  cheek  neither  health 
nor  pleasure  bloomed,  and  from  whose  eyes  Love  ha<J 
fled,  —  to  hide  himself  in  her  heart  ? 

If  any  thing  could  have   charmed   away  the  mel 


-z=rd) 


22<J  LALLA    ROOKH. 

■ncnoly  of  hei  spirits,  it  would  have  been  the  fresh 
airs  and  enchanting  scenery  of  that  Valley,  -which  the 
Persians  so  justly  called  the  Unequalled.  But  neither 
the  coolness  of  its  atmosphere,  so  luxurious  after  toil- 
ing up  those  bare  and  burning  mountains,  —  neither 
the  splendor  of  the  minarets  and  pagodas,  that  shone 
out  from  the  depth  of  its  woods,  nor  the  grottoes,  her- 
mitages, and  miraculous  fountains,  which  make  every 
spot  of  that  region  holy  ground,  —  neither  the  countless 
waterfalls,  that  rush  into  the  Valley  from  all  those  high 
and  romantic  mountains  that  encircle  it,  nor  the  fair 
city  on  the  Lake,  whose  houses,  roofed  with  flowers, 
appeared  at  a  distance  like  one  vast  and  variegated 
parterre ;  —  not  all  these  wonders  and  glories  of  the 
most  lovely  country  under  the  sun  could  steal  her  heart 
for  a  minute  from  those  sad  thoughts,  which  but  dark- 
ened, and  grew  bitterer  every  step  she  advanced. 

The  gay  pomps  and  processions  that  met  her  upon 
her  entrance  into  the  Valley,  and  the  magnificence  with 
which  the  roads  all  along  were  decorated,  did  honor  to 
the  taste  and  gallantry  of  the  young  King  It  was 
night  when  they  approached  the  city,  and,  for  the  last 
two  miles,  they  had  passed  under  arches,  thrown  from 
hedge  to  hedge,  festooned  with  only  those  rarest  roses 
from  which  the  Attar  Gul,  more  precious  than  gold,  is 
distilled,  and  illuminated  in  rich  and  fanciful  forms 
with  lanterns  of  the  triple-colored  tortoise-shell  of  Pegu. 
Sometimes,  from  a  dark  wood  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
a  display  of  fireworks  would  break  out,  so  sudden  and 
so  brilliant,  that  a  Brahmin  might  fancy  he  beheld  that 
grove,  in  whose  purple  shade  the  God  of  Battles  was 
born,  bursting  into  a  flame  at  the  moment  of  his  birth ; 
—  while,  at  other  times,  a  quick  and  playful  irrad  ation 
continued  to  brighten  all  the  fields  and  gardens  by 


LALLA     ROOKH.  227 

which  they  passed,  forming  a  line  of  dancing  lights 
along  the  horizon ;  like  the  meteors  of  the  north  as 
they  are  seen  by  those  hunters,  who  pursue  the  white 
and  blue  foxes  on  the  confines  of  the  Icy  Sea. 

These  arches  and  fireworks  delighted  the  Ladies  of 
the  Princess  exceedingly ;  and  with  their  usual  good 
logic,  they  deduced  from  his  taste  for  illuminations, 
that  the  King  of  Bucharia  would  make  the  most  exem- 
plary husband  imaginable.  Nor,  indeed,  could  Lalla 
Rookh  herself  help  feeling  the  kindness  and  splendor 
with  which  the  young  bridegroom  welcomed  her;  — 
but  she  also  felt  how  painful  is  the  gratitude,  which 
kindness  from  those  we  cannot  love  excites  ;  and  that 
their  best  blandishments  come  over  the  heart  with  all 
that  chilling  and  deadly  sweetness,  which  we  can  fancy 
in  the  cold,  odoriferous  wind  that  is  to  blow  over  this 
earth  in  the  last  days. 

The  marriage  was  fixed  for  the  morning  after  her 
arrival,  when  she  was.  for  the  first  time,  to  be  presented 
to  the  monarch  in  that  Imperial  Palace  beyond  the 
lake,  called  the  Shalimar.  Though  never  before  had  a 
night  of  more  wakeful  and  anxious  thought  been  passed 
in  the  Happy  Valley,  yet,  when  she  rose  in  the  morning 
and  her  Ladies  came  around  her,  to  assist  in  the  adjust- 
ment of  the  bridal  ornaments,  they  thought  they  had 
never  seen  her  look  half  so  beautiful.  What  she  had 
lost  of  the  bloom  and  radiancy  of  her  charms  was  more 
than  made  up  by  that  intellectual  expression,  that  soul 
beaming  from  the  eyes,  which  is  worth  all  the  rest  of 
loveliness.  When  they  had  tinged  her  fingers  with  the 
Henna  leaf,  and  placed  upon  her  brow  a  small  coronet 
of  jewels,  of  the  shape  worn  by  the  ancient  Queens  of 
Bucharia,  they  flung  over  her  head  the  rose-colored 
bridal  veil,  and  she  proceeded  to  the  barge  that  was  ta 


B28  T.AT.T.A     ROOKH. 

convey  her  across  the  lake ;  —  first  kissing1,  with  a 
mouniful  look,  the  little  amulet  of  cornelian  whiuh  hei 
father  at  parting  had  hung  about  her  neck 

The  morning  was  as  fresh  and.  fair  as  the  maid  en 
whose  nuptials  it  rose,  and  the  shining  lake  all  covered 
with  boats,  the  minstrels  playing  upon  the  shores  of  the 
islands,  and  the  crowded  summer-houses  on  the  green 
hills  around,  with  shawls  and  banners  waving  from 
their  roofs,  presented  such  a  picture  of  animated 
rejoicing,  as  only  she  who  was  the  object  of  it  all,  did 
not  feel  with  transport  To  Lalla  Rookh  alone  it  waa 
a  melancholy  pageant ;  nor  could  she  have  even  borne 
to  look  upon  the  scene,  were  it  not  for  a  hope  that, 
among  the  crowds  around,  she  might  once  more  perhaps 
catch  a  glimpse  of  Ferarnorz.  So  much  was  her 
imagination  haunted  by  this  thought,  that  there  was 
scarcely  an  islet  or  boat  she  passed  on  the  way,  at 
which  her  iieart  did  not  flutter  with  the  momentary 
fancy  that  he  was  there.  Happy,  in  her  eyes,  the  hum- 
blest slave  upon  whom  the  light  of  his  dear  looks  fell ! 
—  In  the  barge  immediately  after  the  Princess  sat 
Fadladeen,  with  his  silken  curtains  thrown  widely  apart, 
that  all  might  have  the  benefit  of  his  august  presence, 
and  with  his  head  full  of  the  speech  he  was  to  deliver 
to  the  King,  ';  concerning  Ferarnorz,  and  literature,  and 
the  Chabuk,  as  connected  therewith." 

They  new  had  entered  the  canal  which  leads  from  the 
Lake  to  the  splendid  domes  and  saloons  of  the  Shalimar, 
and  went  gliding  on  through  the  gardens  that  ascended 
from  each  bank,  full  of  flowering  shrubs  that  made  the 
an-  an  perfume ;  while  from  the  middle  of  the  canal 
rose  jets  of  water,  smooth  and  unbroken,  to  such  a 
dazzling  height,  that  they  stood  like  tall  pillars  of 
diamond   in   the   sunshiie.     After  sailing  under   tha 


LALLA     i»00KH.  22C 

arches  of  various  saloons,  they  at  length  arrived  at 
the  last  and  most  magnificent,  wlcre  the  monarch 
awaited  the  coming  of  his  bride;  a  ad  such  was  the 
agitation  of  her  heart  and  frame,  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  she  could  walk  up  the  marble  steps  -nhicL 
were  covered  with  cloth  of  gold  for  her  ascent  froir  the 
large.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  stood  two  thrones,  aa 
precious  as  the  Cerulean  Throne  of  Coolburga,  on  one 
of  which  sat  Aliris,  the  youthful  King  of  Bucharia,  anc 
on  the  other  was,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  be  placed  the 
most  beautiful  Princess  in  the  world.  Immediately 
upon  the  entrance  of  Lalla  Rookh  into  the  saloon,  the 
monarch  descended  from  his  throue  to  meet  her ;  but 
scarcely  had  he  time  to  take  her  hand  in  his,  when  she 
Bcreamed  with  surprise,  and  fainted  at  his  feet.  It  was 
Feramorz  himself  that  stood  before  her  !  —  Feramorz, 
was,  himself,  the  Sovereign  of  Bucharia,  who  in  this 
disguise  had  accompanied  his  young  bride  from  Delhi 
and,  having  won  her  love  as  an  humble  minstrel,  now 
amply  deserved  to  enjoy  it  as  a  King. 

The  consternation  of  Fadladeen  at  this  discovery 
was,  for  the  moment,  almost  pitiable.  But  change  of 
opinion  is  a  resource  too  convenient  in  courts  for  this 
experienced  courtier  not  to  avail  himself  of  it.  His 
criticisms  were  all,  of  course,  recanted  instantly :  he 
was  seized  with  an  admiration  of  the  King's  verses,  as 
unoounded  as,  he  begged  him  to  believe,  it  was  disin- 
terested ;  and  the  following  week  saw  him  in  possession 
of  an  additional  place,  swcaiing  by  all  the  Saints  of 
Islam  that  never  had  there  existed  so  great  a  poet  aa 
die  Monarch  Aliris,  and,  moreover,  ready  to  prescribe 
his  favorite  regimen  of  the  Chabuk  for  every  marif 
woman,  and  child  that  dared  to  think  otherwise. 

Of  the  happiness  of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Bucharia, 

20 


230  LALLA     KOOKH. 

after  such  a  beginning,  there  can  be  but  little  douDt 
and,  among  the  lesser  symptoms,  it  is  recorded  of  Lalla 
"ookh,  that,  to  the  day  of  her  death,  in  memory  of  their 
delightful  journey,  she  never  called  the  King  by  any 
&her  name  than  Feramorz. 


ODES    OF    ANACKEON. 


ODES    OF    ANACREON 


ODE  I. 

[saw  the  smiling  bard  of  pleasure, 
The  minstrel  of  the  Teian  measure , 
'T  was  in  a  vision  of  the  night, 
He  beam'd  upon  my  wondering  sight 
I  heard  his  voice,  and  warmly  press't 
The  dear  enthusiast  to  my  breast 
His  tresses  wore  a  silvery  dye 
But  Beauty  sparkled  in  his  eye ; 
Sparkled  in  his  eyes  of  fire, 
Through  the  mist  of  soft  desire. 
His  lip  exhaled,  whene'er  he  sigh'd, 
The  fragrance  of  the  racy  tide  ; 
And,  as  with  weak  and  reeling  feet, 
He  came  my  cordial  kiss  to  meet, 
An  infant,  of  the  Cyprian  band, 
Guided  him  on  with  tender  hand. 
Quick  from  his  glowing  brows  he  drew 
His  braid,  of  many  a  wanton  hue  ; 
I  took  the  wreath,  whose  inmost  twine 
Breathed  of  him  and  blush'd  with  wine, 
I  hung  it  o'er  my  thoughtless  brow, 
And  ah  !  I  feel  its  magic  now : 
I  feel  that  even  his  garland's  touch 
Can  make  the  bosom  love  too  much. 


231 


ODE  n. 

Giie  me  the  harp  of  epic  song, 
Which  Homer's  finger  thrill'd  along  ; 
But  tear  away  the  sanguine  string, 
For  war  is  not  the  theme  I  sing. 
Proclaim  the  laws  of  festal  rite, 
I  'm  monarch  of  the  board  to-night  ■ 
And  all  around  shall  brim  as  high, 
And  quaff  the  tide  as  deep  as  I. 
And  when  the  cluster's  mellowing  dews 
Their  warm  enchanting  balm  infuse, 
Our  feet  shall  catch  th'  elastic  bound, 
And  ree*  us  through  the  dance's  round. 
Great  Bacchus !  we  shall  sing  to  thee, 
In  wild  but  sweet  ebriety  ; 
Flashing  around  such  sparks  of  though^ 
As  Bacchus  could  alone  have  taught 

Then,  give  the  harp  of  epic  song, 
Which  Homer's  finger  thrill'd  along ; 
But  tear  away  the  sanguine  string. 
For  war  is  not  the  theme  I  sing 


235 


ODE  III. 

Listen  to  the  Muse's  lyre, 
Master  of  the  pencil's  fire  I 
Sketch'd  in  pointing's  bold  display 
Many  a  city  first  portray  ; 
Many  a  city,  revelling  free, 
Full  of  loose  festivity. 
Picture  then  a  rosy  train, 
Bacchants  straying  o'er  the  plain , 
Piping,  as  they  roam  along, 
Roundelay  or  shepherd-song. 
Paint  me  next,  if  painting  mav 
Such  a  theme  as  this  portray, 
All  the  earthly  heaven  of  love 
These  delighted  mortals  prove. 


ODE  IV. 


Vulcan  !  hear  your  glorious  task 
I  do  not  from  your  labors  ask 
In  gorgeous  panoply  to  shine, 
For  war  was  ne'er  a  sport  of  mine. 
No  _  let  me  have  a  silver  bowl, 
Where  I  may  cradle  all  my  soul ; 


236  ODES    OF    ANACREOW. 

But  mind  that,  o'er  its  simple  frame 
No  mimic  constellations  flame ; 
Nor  grave  upon  the  swelling  side 
Orion,  scowling  o'er  the  tide. 
I  care  not  for  the  glitt'ring  wain, 
Nor  yet  the  weeping  sister  train. 
But  let  the  vine  luxuriant  roll 
Its  blushing  tendrils  round  the  bowl, 
While  many  a  rose-lipp'd  bacchant  maid 
Is  culling  clusters  in  their  shade 
Let  sylvan  gods,  in  antic  shapes, 
Wildly  press  the  gushing  grapes, 
And  flights  of  Loves,  in  wanton  play, 
Wing  through  the  air  their  winding  way  $ 
While  Venus  from  her  harbor  green, 
Looks  laughing  at  the  joyous  scene, 
And  young  Lyseus  by  her  side 
Sits,  worthy  of  so  bright  a  bride. 


ODE  V, 


Sculptor,  wouldst  thou  glad  my  soul, 
Grave  for  me  an  ample  bowl, 
Worthy  to  shine  in  hall  or  bower, 
When  spring-time  brings  the  reveller's  hour. 
Grave  it  with  themes  of  chaste  design, 
Fit  for  a  simple  board  like  mine. 
Display  not  there  the  barbarous  rites 
In  which  religious  zeal  delisfhta 


ODES    OF    AnACREON.  237 

Nor  any  tale  of  tragic  fate 

Which  History  shudders  to  rebate. 

No  —  cull  thy  fancies  from  above, 

Themes  of  heav'n  and  themes  of  love. 

Let  Bacchus,  Jove's  ambrosial  boy, 

Distil  the  grape  in  drops  of  joy, 

And  while  he  smiles  at  every  tear, 

Let  warm-eyed  Venus,  dancing  near. 

With  spirits  of  the  genial  bed, 

The  dewy  herbage  deftly  tread. 

Let  Love  be  there,  without  his  arms, 

In  timid  nakedness  of  charms  ; 

And  all  the  Graces,  link'd  with  Love. 

Stray,  laughing,  through  the  shadowy  grove 

While  rosy  boys  disporting  rounu, 

In  circlets  trip  the  velvet  ground. 

But  all !  if  there  Apollo  toys, 

I  tremble  for  the  rosy  boys 


ODE  VI. 


As  late  I  sought  the  spangled  bowe»o, 
To  cull  a  wreath  of  matin  flowers, 
Where  many  an  early  rose  was  weeping, 
I  found  the  urchin  Cupid  sleeping. 
I  caught  the  boy,  a  goblet's  tide 
Was  richly  mantling  by  my  side, 
I  caught  him  by  his  downy  wing, 
And  whelm'd  him  in  the  racy  spring 


238  odes  or  lsmcreon. 

Then  drank  I  down  the  poison'd  bowl 
And  Love  now  nestles  in  ray  soul. 
Oh  yes,  my  soul  is  Cupid's  nest, 
I  feel  him  fluttering  in  my  breast. 


ODE  VIL 


The  women  tell  me  every  day 

That  all  my  bloom  has  pass'd  away 

"  Behold,"  the  pretty  wantons  cry, 

"  Behold  this  mirror  with  a  sigh ; 

The  locks  upon  thy  brow  are  few, 

And,  like  the  rest,  they  're  withering  too  , 

Whether  decline  has  thinn'd  my  hair, 

I  'm  sure  I  neither  know  nor  care ; 

But  this  I  know,  and  this  I  feel, 

As  onward  to  the  tomb  I  steal, 

That  still  as  death  approaches  nearer, 

The  joys  of  life  are  sweeter,  dearer, 

And  had  I  but  an  hour  to  live, 

That  little  hour  to  bliss  I  'd  give 


QJJ 


ODE  VIII. 

I  care  not  for  the  idle  state 

Of  Persia's  king,  the  rich,  the  greats 

1  envy  not  the  monarch's  throne, 

Nor  wish  the  treasured  gold  my  own. 

But  oh !  be  mine  the  rosy  wreath, 

Its  freshness  o'er  my  brow  to  breathe ; 

Be  mine  the  rich  perfumes  that  flow, 

To  cool  and  scent  my  locks  of  snow. 

To-day  I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine, 

As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  would  shine  ; 

But  if  to-morrow  comes,  why  then   ■ 

I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine  again. 

And  thus  while  all  our  days  are  bright 

Nor  time  has  dimm'd  their  bloomy  light, 

Let  us  the  festal  hours  beguile 

With  mantling  cup  and  cordial  smile  ; 

And  shed  from  each  new  bowl  of  wine 

The  richest  drop  on  Bacchus'  shrine. 

For  Death  may  come,  with  brow  unpleasant, 

May  come,  wheD  least  we  wish  him  present. 

And  beckon  to  the  sable  shore, 

And  grimly  bid  us  —  drink  no  more . 


240 


ODE  DC. 

I  prat  thee,  by  the  gods  above, 
Give  me  the  mighty  bowl  I  love, 
And  let  me  sing,  in  wild  delight, 
'  I  will  —  I  will  be  mad  to-night ! * 
Alcmaeon  once,  as  legends  tell, 
Was  frenzied  by  the  fiends  of  hell ; 
Orestes  too,  with  naked  tread, 
Frantic  paced  the  mountain-head ; 
And  why  ?  a  murder'd  mother's  shade 
Haunted  them  still  where'er  they  strav'A 
But  ne'er  could  I  a  murderer  be, 
The  grape  alone  shall  bleed  by  me , 
Yet  can  I  shout,  with  wild  delignt, 
"  I  will  —  I  will  be  mad  to-night !  " 

Ale  ides'  self,  in  days  of  yore, 
In  brued  his  hands  in  youthful  gore, 
And  brandish'd,  with  a  maniac  joy, 
The  quiver  of  th'  expiring  boy : 
And  Ajax,  with  tremendous  shield, 
Infuriate  scour'd  the  guiltless  field. 
But  I,  whose  hands  no  weapon  ask, 
No  armor  but  this  joyous  flask  ; 
The  trophy  of  whose  frantic  hours 
Is  but  a  scatter'd  wreath  of  flowers, 
Ev'n  I  can  sing  with  wild  delight, 
u  I  will  —  I  will  be  mad  to-ninfht !  " 


341 


ODE  X. 

How  am  I  to  punish  thee, 
For  the  wrong  thou  'st  done  to  me 
Silly  swallow,  prating  tiling  — 
Shall  I  clip  that  wheeling  wing  ? 
Or,  as  Tereus  did,  of  old, 
(So  the  fabled  tale  is  told,) 
Shall  I  tear  that  tongue  away, 
Tongue  that  utter'd  such  a  lay  i 
Ah,  how  thoughtless  hast  thou 
Long  before  the  dawn  was  seen, 
When  a  dream  came  o'er  my  mind, 
Picturing  her  I  worship,  kind, 
Just  when  I  was  nearly  blest, 
Loud  thy  matins  broke  my  rest ! 


ODE  XL 


"  Tell  me,  gentle  youth,  I  pray  the* 

What  in  purchase  shall  I  pay  thee 

For  this  little  waxen  toy, 

Image  of  the  Paphian  boy  ?  " 

Thus  I  said,  the  other  day, 

To  a  youth  who  pass'd  my  way  . 
21 


•242  ODES    OF   ANACREOW. 

"  Sir,"  (he  answer'd,  and  the  while 

Answer'd  all  in  Doric  style,) 

"  Take  it,  for  a  trifle  take  it ; 

'T  was  not  I  who  dared  to  make  it  * 

No,  believe  me,  't  was  not  I ; 

Oh,  it  has  cost  me  many  a  sigh, 

And  I  can  no  longer  keep 

Little  gods,  who  murder  sleep !  " 

"  Here,  then,  here,"  (I  said  with  joy,) 

"  Here  is  silver  for  the  boy : 

He  shall  be  my  bosom  guest, 

Idol  of  my  pious  breast !  " 

Now,  young  Love,  I  have  thee  mine, 

Warm  me  with  that  torch  of  thine ; 

Make  me  feel  as  I  have  felt, 

Or  thy  waxen  frame  shall  melt : 

I  must  burn  with  warm  desire, 

Or  thou,  my  boy  —  in  yonder  fire 


ODE  XII 


They  tell  how  Atys,  wild  with  love, 
Roams  the  mount  and  haunted  grove ; 
Cybele's  name  he  howls  around, 
The  gloomy  blast  returns  the  sound ! 
Oft  too,  by  Claros'  haunted  spring, 
The  votaries  of  the  laurell'd  king 
Quaff  the  inspiring,  magic  stream, 
And  rave  in  wild,  prophetic  dream. 


ODES    OF   ANACREON.  24& 

But  frenzied  dreams  are  not  for  me 
Great  Bacchus  is  my  deity ! 
Full  of  mirth  and  full  of  him, 
While  floating  odors  round  me  swim, 
While  mantling  howls  are  full  supplied, 
And  you  sit  blushing  by  my  side, 
I  will  be  mad  and  raving  too  — 
Mad,  my  girl,  with  love  for  you  ! 


ODE  XIII. 


I  will,  I  will,  the  conflict 's  past, 

And  1 11  consent  to  love  at  last 

Cupid  has  long,  with  smiling  art, 

Invited  me  to  yield  my  heart ; 

And  I  have  thought  that  peace  of  mind 

Should  not  be  for  a  smile  resign'd : 

And  so  repell'd  the  tender  lure, 

And  hoped  my  heart  would  sleep  secure, 


But,  slighted  in  his  boasted  chnnns, 
The  angry  infant  flew  to  arms  ; 
He  slung  his  quiver's  golden  frame, 
He  took  his  bow,  his  shafts  of  flame, 
And  proudly  summon'd  me  to  yield, 
Or  meet  him  on  the  martial  field. 
And  what  did  I  unthinking  do  ? 
I  took  to  arms,  undaunted,  too  • 


244  ODES    OF    ANACREON. 

Assumed  the  corslet,  shield,  and  spear, 
And,  like  Pelides,  smiled  at  fear. 
Then  (hear  ft,  all  ye  powers  above ! ) 
I  fought  with  Love  !  I  fought  with  Lcve 
And  now  his  arrows  all  were  shed, 
And  I  had  just  in  terror  fled  — 
When,  heaving  an  indignant  sigh, 
To  see  me  thus  unwounded  fly, 
And,  having  now  no  other  dart, 
He  shot  himself  into  my  heart ! 
My  heart  —  alas  the  luckless  day  ! 
Received  the  god,  and  died  away. 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  faithless  shield 
Thy  lord  at  length  is  forced  to  yield. 
Vain,  vain,  is  every  outward  care, 
The  foe 's  within,  and  triumphs  there. 


ODE  XIV. 


Count  me,  on  the  summer  trees, 
Every  leaf  that  courts  the  breeze , 
Count  me,  on  the  foamy  deep, 
Every  wave  that  sinks  to  sleep ; 
Then,  when  you  have  nurnber'd  these 
Billowy  tides  and  leafy  trees, 
Count  me  all  the  flames  I  prove, 
All  the  gentle  nymphs  I  lo*e. 
First,  of  pure  Athenian  maids 
Sporting  in  their  olive  shades, 


ODES    OF    ANACREOJf.  345 

You  may  reckon  just  a  score, 
Nay,  I  '11  grant  you  fifteen  more. 
In  the  famed  Corinthian  grove, 
Where  such  countless  wantons  rove, 
Chains  of  beauties  may  be  found, 
Chains,  by  which  my  heart  is  bound ; 
There,  indeed,  are  nymphs  divine, 
Dangerous  to  a  soul  like  mine. 
Many  bloom  in  Lesbos'  isle  ; 
Many  in  Ionia  smile ; 
Rhodes  a  pretty  swarm  can  boast; 
Caria  too  contains  a  host 
Sum  them  all  —  of  brown  and  fair 
You  may  count  two  thousand  there. 
What,  you  stare  ?  I  pray  you,  peace 
More  I  '11  find  before  I  cease. 
Have  I  told  you  all  my  flames, 
'Mong  the  amorous  Syrian  dames  ? 
Have  I  number'd  eveiy  one, 
Glowing  under  Egypt's  sun  ? 
Or  the  nymphs,  who,  blushing  sweet, 
Deck  the  shrine  of  Love-in  Crete; 
Where  the  God,  with  festal  play, 
Holds  eternal  holiday  ? 
Still  in  clusters,  still  remain 
Gades'  warm,  desiring  train ; 
Still  there  lies  a  myriad  more 
On  the  sable  India's  shore  ; 
These,  and  many  far  removed, 
All  are  loving  —  all  are  loved 
81* 


246 


ODE  XV. 

Teli,  .Tie,  why,  my  sweetest  dove, 
Thus  your  humid  pinions  move, 
Shedding  through  the  air  in  showere 
Essence  of  the  balmiest  flowers  ? 
Tell  me  whither,  whence  you  rove, 
Tell  me  all,  my  sweetest  dove 


Curious  stranger,  I  belong 

To  the  bard  of  Teian  song ; 

With  his  mandate  now  I  fly 

To  the  nymph  of  azure  eye ;  — 

She,  whose  eye  has  madden'd  many, 

But  the  poet  more  than  any. 

Venus,  for  a  hymn  of  love, 

Warbled  in  her  votive  grove, 

('T  was  in  sooth  a  gentle  lay,) 

Gave  me  to  the  bard  away. 

See  me  now  his  faithful  minion.  — 

Thus  with  softly-gliding  pinion, 

To  his  lovely  girl  I  bear 

Songs  of  passion  through  the  air. 

Oft  he  blandly  whispers  me, 

"  Soon,  my  bird,  I  '11  set  you  free.* 

But  in  vain  he  '11  bid  me  fly, 

I  shall  serve  him  till  I  die. 

Never  could  my  plumes  sustain 

Ruffling  winds  and  chilling  rain, 


ODES    OF    AXACREOS. 

O'er  ti  e  plains,  or  in  the  dell, 
On  the  mountain's  savage  swell, 
Seeking  in  the  desert  wood 
Gloomy  shelter,  rustic  food. 
Now  I  lead  a  life  of  ease, 
Far  from  rustic  haunts  like  these. 
From  Anacreon's  hand  I  eat 
Food  delicious,  viands  sweet ; 
Flutter  o'er  his  goblet's  br>m, 
Sip  the  foamy  wine  with  him. 
Then  when  I  have  wanton'd  round 
To  his  lyre's  beguiling  sound ; 
Or  with  gently-moving  wings 
Fann'd  the  minstrel  while  he  sings 
On  his  harp  I  sink  in  slumbers, 
Dreaming  still  of  dulcet  numbers ! 


This  is  all  —  away  —  away  — 
You  have  made  me  waste  the  day. 
How  I  've  chattered  !  prating  crow 
Never  yet  did  chatter  so. 


247 


ODE  XVI 


Thou,  whose  soft  and  rosy  hues 
Mimic  form  and  soul  infuse, 
Best  of  painters,  come,  portray 
The  lovely  maid  that 's  far  away 


248                                  ODES    OF    AXACREOI*. 

Far  away,  my  soul !  thou  art, 

But  I  've  thy  beauties  all  by  hearts 

Paint  her  jetty  ringlets  playing, 

Silky  locks,  like  tendrils  straying; 

And,  if  painting  hath  the  skill 

To  make  the  spicy  balm  distil, 

Let  every  little  lock  exhale 

A  sigh  of  perfume  on  the  gale 

Where  her  tresses'  curly  flow 

Darkles  o'er  the  brow  of  snow, 

Let  her  forehead  beam  to  light, 

Burnish'd  as  the  ivory  bright 

Let  her  eyebrows  smoothly  rise 

In  jetty  arches  o'er  her  eyes, 

Each,  a  crescent  gently  gliding, 

Just  commingling,  just  dividing. 

But,  hast  thou  any  sparkles  warm, 

The  lightning  of  her  eyes  to  form  t 

Let  them  effuse  the  azure  rays 

That  in  Minerva's  glances  blaze, 

Mix'd  with  the  liquid  light  that  liea 

In  Cytherea's  languid  eyes. 

O'er  her  nose  and  cheek  be  shed 

Flushing  white  and  soflen'd  red ; 

Mingling  tints,  as  when  there  glows 

In  snowy  milk  the  bashful  rose. 

Then  her  lip,  so  rich  in  blisses, 

Sweet  petitioner  for  kisses, 

Rosy  nest,  where  lurks  Persuasion, 

Mutely  courting  Love's  invasion. 

Next,  beneath  the  velvet  chin, 

Whose  dimple  hides  a  Love  within. 

ODES    OF    AXACREON.  24i) 

Mould  her  neck  with  grace  descending. 
In  a  heaven  of  beauty  ending  ; 
While  countless  charms,  above,  below, 
Sport  and  flutter  round  its  snow. 
Now  let  a  floating,  lucid  veil 
Shadow  her  form,  but  not  conceal ; 
A  charm  may  peep,  a  hue  may  beam, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  Fancy's  dream. 
Enough  —  't  is  she  !  't  is  all  I  seek ; 
It  glows,  it  lives,  it  soon  will  speak ! 


ODE  xvn. 


And  now  with  all  thy  pencil's  truth, 

Portray  Bathyllus,  lovely  youth ! 

Let  his  hair,  in  masses  bright, 

Fall  like  floating  rays  of  light ; 

And  there  the  raven's  dye  confuse 

With  the  golden  sunbeam's  hues. 

Let  no  wreath,  with  artful  twine. 

The  flowing  of  his  locks  confine ; 

But  leave  them  loose  to  every  breeze, 

To  take  what  shape  and  course  they  pleaaa 
Beneath  the  forehead,  fair  as  snow, 
But  flush'd  with  manhood's  early  glow, 
And  guileless  as  the  dews  of  dawn, 
Let  the  majestic  brows  be  drawn, 
Of  ebon  hue,  enrich'd  by  gold. 
Such  as  dark,  shining  snakes  unfold. 


950  ODES    OP   ANACREOIC. 

Mix  in  his  eyes  the  power  alike, 
With  love  to  win,  with  awe  to  strike ; 
Borrow  from  Mars  his  look  of  ire, 
From  Venus  her  soft  glance  of  fire ; 
Blend  them  in  such  expression  here, 
That  we  by  turns  may  hope  and  fear ! 

Now  from  the  sunny  apple  seek 

The  velvet  down  that  spreads  his  cheek , 

And  there,  if  art  so  far  can  go, 

Th'  ingenious  blush  of  boyhood  show. 

While,  for  his  mouth  —  but  no,  —  in  vain 

Would  words  its  witching  charm  explain. 

Make  it  the  very  seat,  the  throne, 

That  Eloquence  would  claim  her  own ; 

And  let  the  lips,  though  silent,  wear 

A  life-look,  as  if  words  were  there. 

Next  thou  his  ivory  neck  must  trace, 
Moulded  with  soft  but  manly  grace ; 
Fair  as  the  neck  of  Paphia's  boy, 
Where  Paphia's  arms  have  hung  in  joy. 
Give  him  the  winged  Hermes'  hand, 
With  which  he  waves  his  snaky  wand ; 
Let  Bacchus  the  broad  chest  supply, 
And  Leda's  sons  the  sinewy  thigh  ; 
While,  through  his  whole  transparent  frame 
Thou  show'st  the  stirrings  of  that  flame, 
Which  kindles,  when  the  first  love-sigh 
Steals  from  the  heart,  unconscious  why. 
But  sure  thy  pencil,  though  so  bright, 
Is  envious  of  the  eye's  delight, 
Or  its  enamor'd  touch  would  show 
The  shoulder,  fair  as  sunless  snow 


ODES    OF   ANACREON.  251 

Which  now  in  veiling  shadow  lies, 
Removed  from  all  but  Fancy's  eyes. 
Now,  for  his  feet  —  but  hold  —  forbear  — 
I  see  the  sun-god's  portrait  there  ; 
Why  paint  Bathyllua  ?  when,  in  truth, 
There,  in  that  god,  thou  'st  sketch'd  the  youth, 
Enough  —  let  this  bright  form  be  mme, 
And  send  the  boy  to  Samos'  shrine ; 
Phoebus  shall  then  Bathyllus  be, 
Bathyllus  then,  the  deity ! 


ODE  XVIII. 


Now  the  star  of  day  is  high, 
Fly,  my  girls,  in  pity  fly, 
Bring  me  Wne  in  brimming  inns, 
Cool  my  lip,  it  burns,  it  burns ! 
Sunn'd  by  the  meridian  fire, 
Panting,  languid,  I  expire. 
Give  me  all  those  humid  flowers, 
Drop  them  o'er  my  brow  in  showers. 
Scarce  a  breathing  chaplet  now 
Lives  upon  my  feverish  brow ; 
Every  dewy  rose  I  wear 
Sheds  its  tears,  and  withers  there, 
But  to  you,  my  burning  heart, 
What  can  now  relief  impart  ? 
Can  brimming  bowl,  or  flowret's  dew 
Cool  the  flame  that  scorches  you  ? 


252 


ODE  XIX 

Here  recline  you,  gentle  maid, 
Sweet  in  this  embowering  shade ; 
Sweet  the  young,  the  modest  trees, 
Ruffled  by  the  kissing  breeze  ; 
Sweet  the  little  founts  that  weep, 
Lulling  soft  the  mind  to  sleep  ; 
Hark !  they  whisper  as  they  roll, 
Calm  persuasion  to  the  soul ; 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  is  not  this 
All  a  stilly  scene  of  bliss  ? 
Who,  my  girl,  would  pass  it  by  ? 
Surely  neither  you  nor  I. 


ODE  XX. 


One  day  the  Muses  twined  the  handa 
Of  infant  Love  with  flow'ry  bands  ; 
And  to  celestial  Beauty  gave 
The  captive  infant  for  her  slave. 
His  mother  comes,  with  many  a  toy. 
To  ransom  her  beloved  boy ; 
His  mother  sues,  but  all  in  vain,  — 
He  ne'er  will  leave  his  chains  again 


ODES   OK    i«iCfi£Off  258 

Even  should  they  Lake  his  chains  away, 
The  little  captive  still  would  stay. 
"  If  this,"  he  cries,  "  a  bondage  be, 
Oh,  who  could  wish  for  liberty  ?  " 


ODE  XXL 

observe  when  mother  earth  is  dry, 
She  drinks  the  droppings  of  the  sky, 
And  then  the  dewy  cordial  gives 
To  ev'ry  thirst)'-  plant  that  lives. 
The  vapors,  which  at  evening  weep, 
Are  beverage  to  the  swelling  deep ; 
And  when  the  rosy  sun  appears, 
He  drinks  the  ocean's  misty  tears. 
The  moon  too  quaffs  her  paly  stream 
Of  lustre,  from  the  solar  beam. 
Then,  hence  with  all  your  sober  thinking  i 
Since  Nature's  holy  law  is  drinking  ; 
I  '11  make  the  laws  of  nature  mine, 
And  pledge  the  universe  in  wine. 

23 


254 


ODE  XXII. 

The  Phrygian  rock,  that  braves  the  storm, 
Was  once  a  weeping  matron's  form ; 
And  Progue,  hapless,  frantic  maid, 
Is  now  a  swallow  in  the  shade. 
Oh !  that  a  mirror's  form  were  mine, 
That  I  might  catch  that  smile  divine ; 
And  like  my  own  fond  fancy  be, 
Reflecting  thee,  and  only  thee ; 
Or  could  I  be  the  robe  which  holds 
That  graceful  form  within  its  folds ; 
Or,  turn'd  into  a  fountain,  lave 
Thy  beauties  in  my  circling  wave. 
Would  I  were  perfume  for  thy  hair, 
To  breathe  my  soul  in  fragrance  there ; 
Or,  better  still,  the  zone,  that  lies 
Close  to  thy  breast,  and  feels  its  sighs  i 
Or  e'en  those  envious  pearls  that  show 
So  faintly  round  tbat  neck  of  snow  — 
Yes,  I  would  be  a  happy  gem, 
Like  them  to  hang,  to  fade  like  them. 
What  more  would  thy  Anacreon  be  ? 
Or,  any  thing  that  touches  thee  ; 
Nay,  sandals  for  those  airy  feet  — 
E'en  to  be  trod  bv  them  were  sweet! 


255 


ODE  XXIIL 

1  cften  wish  this  languid  lyre. 
This  warbler  of  my  soul's  desire. 
Could  raise  the  breath  of  song  sublime, 
To  men  of  fame,  in  former  time. 
But  when  the  soaring  theme  I  try, 
Along  the  chords  my  numbers  die, 
And  whisper,  with  dissolving  tone, 
"  Our  sighs  are  given  to  love  alone  ! " 
Indignant  at  the  feeble  lay, 
I  tore  the  panting  chords  away, 
Attuned  them  to  a  nobler  swell, 
And  struck  again  the  breathing  shell ; 
In  all  the  glow  of  epic  fire, 
To  Hercules  I  wake  the  lyre. 
But  still  its  fainting  sighs  repeat, 
"  The  tale  of  love  alone  is  sweet !  " 
Then  fare  thee  well,  seductive  dream, 
That  mad'st  me  follow  Glory's  theme  ; 
For  thou  my  lyre,  and  thou  my  heart, 
Shall  never  more  in  spirit  part ; 
And  all  that  one  has  felt  so  well 
The  other  shall  as  sweetly  tell ! 


r=i 


zafy 


ODE  XXIV. 

To  all  that  breathe  Use  air  of  heaven, 
Some  boon  of  strength  has  Nature  given. 
In  forming  the  majestic  bull, 
She  fenced  with  wreathed  horns  his  skull 
A  hoof  of  strength  she  lent  the  steed, 
And  wing'd  the  timorous  hare  with  SDeed. 
She  gave  the  lion  fangs  of  terror, 
And  o'er  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror, 
Taught  the  unnumber'd  scaly  throng 
To  trace  their  liquid  path  along ; 
While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove, 
She  plumed  the  warbling  world  of  love. 

To  man  she  gave,  in  that  proud  hour, 
The  boon  of  intellectual  power, 
Then,  what,  oh  woman,  what,  for  thee, 
Was  left  in  Nature's  treasury  ? 
She  gave  thee  beauty —  mightier  far 
Than  all  the  pomp  and  power  of  war. 
Nor  steel,  nor  fire  itself  hath  power 
Like  woman  in  her  conquering  hour. 
Be  thou  but  fair,  mankind  adore  thee, 
Smile,  and  a  world  is  weak  before  the  e ! 


257 


ODE  XXV. 

Osce  in  each  revolving  year, 
Gentle  bird !  we  find  thee  here. 
When  Nature  wears  her  summer-vest, 
Thou  com'st  to  weave  thy  simple  neat  5 
But  when  the  chilling  winter  lowers. 
Again  thou  seek'st  the  genial  bow  :rs 
Of  Memphis,  or  the  shores  of  Nile, 
Where  sunny  hours  for  ever  smile. 
And  thus  thy  pinion  rests  and  roves, — ■ 
Alas !  unlike  the  swarm  of  Loves, 
That  brood  within  this  hapless  breast, 
And  never,  never  change  their  nest ! 
Still  every  year,  and  all  the  year, 
They  fix  their  fated  dwelling  here ; 
And  some  their  infant  plumage  try, 
And  on  a  tender  winglet  fly  ; 
While  in  the  shell,  impregn'd  witb  fires, 
Still  lurk  a  thousand  more  desires  ; 
Some  from  their  tiny  prisons  peeping, 
And  some  in  formless  embryo  sleeping. 


Thus  peopled,  like  the  vernal  groves, 
My  breast  resounds  with  warbling  Lovea ; 
One  urchin  imps  the  other's  feather, 
Then  twin-desires  they  wing  together, 
And  fast  as  they  thus  take  their  flight, 
Still  other  urchins  snrmg  to  light. 

22* 


258  ODES    OF    AKACREOIT. 

But  is  there  then  no  kindly  art, 
To  chase  these  Cupids  from  my  heart  ? 
Ah,  no !  I  fear,  in  sadness  fear, 
They  will  for  ever  nestle  here ! 


ODE   XXVI. 


Tht  harp  may  sing  of  Troy's  alarms, 
Or  tell  the  tale  of  Theban  arms ; 
With  other  wars  my  song  shall  burn, 
For  other  wounds  my  harp  shall  mourn. 
T  was  not  the  crested  warrior's  dart, 
That  drank  the  current  of  my  heart ; 
Nor  naval  arms,  nor  mailed  steed, 
Have  made  this  vanquish'd  bosom  bleed  j 
No  —  't  was  from  eyes  of  liquid  blue, 
A  host  of  quiver'd  Cupids  flew ; 
And  now  my  heart  all  bleeding  lies 
Beneath  that  army  of  the  eyes ! 


259 


ODE  XXVII. 

We  read  the  flying  courser's  name 
Upon  his  side,  in  marks  of  flame ; 
And,  by  their  turban'd  brows  alone, 
The  warriors  of  the  East  are  known. 
But  in  the  lover's  glowing  eyes, 
The  inlet  to  his  bosom  lies ; 
Through  them  we  see  the  small  faint  mark, 
Where  Love  has  dropp'd  his  burning  spark ! 


ode  xxvm. 


As,  by  his  Lemnian  forge's  flame, 
The  husband  of  the  Paphian  dame 
Moulded  the  glowing  steel,  to  form 
Arrows  for  Cupid,  thrilling  warm ; 
And  Venus,  as  he  plied  his  art. 
Shed  honey  round  each  new-made  dart, 
While  Love,  at  hand,  to  finish  all, 
Tipp'd  every  arrow's  point  with  gall ; 
It  chanced  the  Lord  of  Battles  came 
To  visit  that  deep  cave  of  flame. 
T  was  from  the  ranks  of  war  he  rush'd 
His  spear  with  many  a  life-drop  blush'J  ; 


200  odes  of  a.nacheo:*. 

He  saw  die  fiery  darts,  and  smiled 
Contemptuous  at  the  archer-child. 
''What!"  said  the  urchin,  "dost  thou  smile? 
Here,  hold  this  little  dart  awhile, 
And  thou  wilt  find,  though  swift  of  flight, 
My  bolts  are  not  so  feathery  light" 


Mars  took  the  shaft — and,  oh,  thy  look, 
Sweet  Venus,  when  the  shaft  lie  took !  — 
Sighing,  he  felt  the  urchin's  art, 
And  cried,  in  agony  of  heart, 
"  It  is  not  light  —  I  sink  with  pain ! 
Take  —  take  thy  arrow  back  again." 
"  No,"  said  the  child,  "  it  must  not  be ; 
That  little  dart  was  made  for  thee ! " 


ODE  XXIX. 


Yes  —  loving  is  a  painful  thrill, 
And  not  to  love  more  painful  still ; 
But  oh,  it  is  the  worst  of  pain, 
To  love  and  not  be  loved  again  ! 
Affection  now  has  fled  from  earth, 
Nor  fire  of  genius,  noble  birth, 
Nor  heavenly  virtue,  can  beguile 
From  beauty's  cheek  one  favoring  smile. 
Gold  is  the  woman's  only  theme, 
Gold  is  the  woman's  only  dream. 


ODES    OF    ANACREON.  26 

Oh  !  never  be  that  wretch  forgiven  — 
Forgive  him  not,  indignant  heaven ! 
Whose  grovelling  eyes  could  first  adore, 
Whose  heart  could  pant  for  sordid  ore. 
Since  that  devoted  thirst  began, 
Man  has  forgot  to  feel  for  man  ; 
The  pulse  of  social  life  is  dead, 
And  all  its  tender  feelings  fled  ! 
War  too  has  sullied  Nature's  charms, 
For  goiJ  provokes  the  world  to  arma  : 
And  oh !  the  worst  of  all  its  arts, 
It  rends  asunder  loving  hearts. 


ODE  XXX. 


T  was  in  a  mocking  dream  of  night   - 

I  fancied  I  had  wings  as  light 

As  a  young  bird's,  and  flew  as  fleet ; 

While  Love,  around  whose  beauteous  feet, 

I  knew  not  why,  hung  chains  of  lead, 

Pursued  me,  as  I  trembling  fled  • 

And,  strange  to  say,  as  swift  as  thought, 

Spite  of  my  pinions,  I  was  caught ! 

What  does  the  wanton  Fancy  mean 

By  such  a  strange,  illusive  scene  ? 

I  fear  she  whispers  to  my  breast, 

That  you,  sweet  maid,  have  stoi'n  its  rest ; 


2C2  ODES    OF    AJVACREOW. 

That  though  my  fancy,  for  a  while, 
Hath  hung  on  many  a  woman's  smile, 
I  soon  dissolved  each  passing  vow, 
And  ne'er  was  caught  by  love  till  now 


ODE  XXXL 


Arm'd  with  hyacinthine  rod, 
(Arms  enough  for  such  a  god,) 
Cupid  bade  me  wing  my  pace, 
And  try  with  him  the  rapid  race. 
O'er  many  a  torrent,  wild  and  deep, 
By  tangled  brake  and  pendent  steep, 
With  weary  foot  I  panting  flew, 
Till  my  brow  dropp'd  with  chilly  dew. 
And  now  my  soul,  exhausted,  dying, 
To  my  lip  was  faintly  flying  ; 
And  now  I  thought  the  spark  had  fled, 
When  Cupid  hover'd  o'er  my  hsad, 
And  fanning  light  his  breezy  pinion, 
Rescued  my  soul  from  death's  dominion ; 
Then  said,  in  accents  half-reproving, 
"  Why  hast  thou  been  a  foe  to  loving  ?  * 


ode  xxxn. 

Strew  me  a  fragrant  bed  of  leaves, 
Where  lotus  with  the  myrtle  weaves ; 
And  while  in  luxury's  dream  I  sink, 
Let  me  the  balm  of  Bacchus  drink  ! 
In  this  sweet  hour  of  revelry 
iroung  Love  shall  my  attendant  be  — 
Dress'd  for  the  task,  with  tunic  round 
His  snowy  neck  and  shoulders  bound, 
Himself  shall  hover  by  my  side, 
And  minister  the  racy  tide  ! 


Oh,  swift  as  wheels  that  kindling  roll, 
Our  life  is  hurrying  to  the  goal : 
A  scanty  dust,  to  feed  the  wind, 
Is  all  the  trace  't  will  leave  behind. 
Then  wherefore  waste  the  rose's  bloom 
Upon  the  cold,  insensate  tomb  ? 
Can  flowery  breeze,  or  odor's  breath, 
Affect  the  still,  cold  sense  of  death  ? 
Oh  no  ;  I  ask  no  balm  to  steep 
With  fragrant  tears  my  bed  of  sleep : 
But  now,  while  every  pulse  is  glowing, 
Now  let  me  breathe  the  balsam  flowing 
Now  let  the  rose,  with  blush  of  fire, 
Upon  my  brow  in  sweets  expire ; 
And  bring  the  nymph  whose  eye  hath  power, 
To  brighten  even  death's  cold  hour. 


2G4  0D1S    OF    ANACREON. 

Yes,  Cupid !  ere  my  shade  retire, 
To  join  the  blest  elysian  choir, 
With  wine,  and  love,  and  social  w-e* 
I  '11  make  my  own  elysium  hert, ! 


ODE  XXXIII. 


T  was  noon  of  night,  when  round  the  pole 
The  sullen  Bear  is  seen  to  roll ; 
And  mortals,  wearied  with  the  day, 
Are  slumbering  all  their  cares  away  : 
An  infant,  at  that  dreary  hour, 
Came  weeping  to  my  silent  bower, 
And  waked  me  with  a  piteous  prayer, 
To  shield  him  from  the  midnight  air. 
"  And  who  art  thou,"  I  waking  ciy, 
u  That  bidd'st  my  blissful  visions  fly  ?  " 
"  Ah,  gentle  sire  !  "  the  infant  said, 
"  In  pity  take  me  to  thy  shed  ; 
Nor  fear  deceit :  a  lonely  child 
I  wander  o'er  the  gloomy  wild. 
Chill  drops  the  rain,  and  not  a  ray 
Illumes  the  drear  and  misty  way  1 " 


I  heard  the  baby's  tale  of  woe  , 

I  heard  the  bitter  night-winds  blow ; 

And  sighing  for  his  piteous  fate, 

I  trimm'd  my  lamp  and  oped  the  gate. 


ODES    OF    AKiCREOX  265 

T  was  Love  !  the  little  wand'ring  sprite, 
His  pinion  sparkled  through  the  night. 
I  knew  him  by  his  bow  and  dart ; 
I  knew  him  by  my  fluttering  heart 
Fondly  I  take  him  in,  and  raise 
The  dying  embers'  cheering  blaze  ; 
Press  from  his  dank  and  clinging  hair 
The  crystals  of  the  freezing  air, 
And  in  my  hand  and  bosom  hold 
His  little  fingers  thrilling  cold. 

And  now  the  embers'  genial  ray 
Had  warm'd  his  anxious  fears  away  ; 
"  I  pray  thee,"  said  the  wanton  child, 
(My  bosom  trembled  as  he  smiled,) 
1 1  pray  thee  let  me  try  my  bow, 
For  througli  the  rain  I  've  wander'd  so, 
That  much  I  fear  the  midnight  shower 
Has  injured  its  elastic  power." 
The  fatal  bow  the  urchin  drew ; 
Swift  from  the  string  the  arrow  flew 
As  swiftly  flew  as  glancing  flame, 
And  to  my  inmost  spirit  came ! 
"  Fare  thee  well !  "  I  heard  him  say 
As  laughing  wild  he  wing'd  away  ; 
"  Fare  thee  well,  for  now  I  know 
The  rain  has  not  relax'd  my  bow  ; 
It  still  can  send  a  thrilling  dart, 
As  thou  shalt  own  with  all  thy  heart   * 

23 


2fiG 


ODE  XXXIV. 

Oh  thou,  of  all  creation  blest, 
Sweet  insect,  that  delight'st  to  rest 
Upon  the  wild  wood's  leafy  tops, 
To  drink  the  dew  that  morning  drops, 
And  chirp  thy  song  with  such  a  glee, 
That  happiest  kings  may  envy  thee. 
Whatever  decks  the  velvet  field, 
Whate'er  the  circling  seasons  yield, 
Whatever  buds,  whatever  blows, 
For  thee  it  buds,  for  thee  it  grows. 
Nor  yet  art  thou  the  peasant's  fear, 
To  him  thy  friendly  notes  are  dear ; 
For  thou  art  mild  as  matin  dew  ; 
And  still,  when  summer's  flowery  hue 
Begins  to  paint  the  bloomy  plain, 
We  hear  thy  sweet  prophetic  strain ; 
Thy  sweet  prophetic  strain  we  hear, 
And  bless  the  notes  and  thee  revere ! 
The  Muses  love  thy  shrilly  tone  ; 
Apollo  calls  thee  all  his  own  ; 
'T  was  he  who  gave  that  voice  to  thee, 
'T  is  he  who  tunes  thy  minstrelsy. 


Unworn  by  age's  dim  decline, 

The  fadeless  blooms  of  youth  are  thine, 

Melodious  insect,  child  of  earth, 

In  wisdom  mirthful,  wise  in  mirth ; 


ODES    OF    AiXACREON.  %** 


Exempt  from  every  weak  decay, 
That  withers  vulgar  frames  away ; 
With  not  a  drop  of  blood  to  stain 
The  current  of  thy  purer  vein ; 
So  blest  an  age  is  pass'd  by  thee, 
Thou  seem'st  —  a  little  deity ! 


ODE  XXXV. 


Ccpid  once  upon  a  bed 

Of  roses  laid  his  weary  head  ; 

Luckless  urchin,  not  to  see 

Within  the  leaves  a  slumbering  bee  , 

The  bee  awaked  —  with  anger  wild 

The  bee  awaked,  and  stung  the  child. 

Loud  and  piteous  are  his  cries ; 

To  Venus  quick  he  runs,  he  flies  ; 

"Oh,  mother!— I  am  wounded  through— 

I  die  with  pain  —  in  sooth  I  do ! 

Stung  by  some  little  angry  thing, 

Some  serpent  on  a  tiny  wing  — 

A  bee  it  was  —  for  once,  I  know, 

I  heard  a  rustic  call  it  so." 

Thus  lie  spoke,  and  she  the  while 

Heard  him  with  a  soothing  snide ; 

Then  said,  "  My  infant,  if  so  much 

Thou  feel  the  little  wild-bees  touch, 

How  must  the  heart,  all, -Cupid !  be, 

The  hapless  heart  that's  stung  by  thee!" 


268 


ODE  XXXVI 

If  hoarded  gold  possoss'd  the  power 

To  lengthen  life's  too  fleeting  hour, 

And  purchase  from  the  hand  of  death 

A  little  span,  a  moment's  breath, 

How  I  would  love  the  precious  ore  ! 

And  every  hour  should  swell  my  store ; 

That  when  Death  came,  with  shadowy  p'nion, 

To  waft  me  to  his  black  dominion, 

I  might,  by  bribes,  my  doom  delay, 

And  bid  him  call  some  distant  day. 

But,  since  not  all  earth's  golden  store 

Can  buy  for  us  one  bright  hour  more, 

Why  should  we  vainly  mourn  our  fate, 

Or  sigh  at  life's  uncertain  date  ? 

Nor  wealth  nor  grandeur  can  illume 

The  silent  midnight  of  the  tomb. 

No  —  give  to  others  hoarded  treasures  — 

Mine  be  the  brilliant  round  of  pleasures  • 

The  goblet  rich,  the  board  of  friends, 

Whose  social  souls  the  goblet  blends  ; 

And  mine,  while  yet  I  've  life  to  live, 

Those  joys  that  love  alone  can  give 


269 


ODE  XXXVII. 

T  was  night,  and  many  a  circling  bowl 
Had  deeply  warm'd  my  thirsty  soul ; 
As  lull'd  in  slumber  I  was  laid, 
Bright  visions  o'er  my  fancy  play'd. 
With  maidens,  blooming  as  the  dawn, 
I  seem'd  to  skim  the  opening  lawn ; 
Light,  on  tiptoe  bathed  in  dew, 
We  flew,  and  sported  as  we  flew ! 

Some  ruddy  striplings  who  look'd  on  — 
With  cheeks,  that  like  the  wine-god's  shone 
Saw  me  chasing,  free  and  wild, 
These  blooming  maids,  and  slyly  smiled ; 
Smiled  indeed  with  wanton  glee, 
Though  none  could  doubt  they  envied  me. 
And  still  I  flew  —  and  now  had  caught 
The  panting  nymphs,  and  fondly  thought 
To  gather  from  each  rosy  lip 
A  kiss  that  Jove  himself  might  sip  — 
When  sudden  all  my  dreams  of  joys, 
Blushing  nymphs  and  laughing  boys, 
All  were  gone !  —  "  Alas  ! "  I  said, 
Sighing  for  th'  illusion  fled, 
"  Again,  sweet  sleep,  that  scene  restore, 
Oh !  let  me  dream  it  o'er  and  o'er ! " 

23* 


270 


ODE  XXXVIIL 

Let  us  drain  the  nectar'd  bowl. 
Let  us  raise  the  song  of  soul 
To  him,  the  god  who  loves  so  well 
The  nectar'd  bowl,  the  choral  swell , 
The  god  who  taught  the  sons  of  earth 
To  thrid  the  tangled  dance  of  .mirth  ; 
Him,  who  was  nursed  with  infant  Love, 
And  cradled  in  the  Paphian  grove  ; 
Him,  that  the  snowy  Queen  of  Charms 
So  oft  has  fondled  in  her  arms. 
Oh  't  is  from  him  the  transport  flows, 
Which  sweet  intoxication  knows  ; 
With  him,  the  brow  forgets  its  gloom, 
And  brilliant  graces  learn  to  bloom. 


Behold !  —  my  boys  a  goblet  bear, 
Whose  sparkling  foam  lights  up  the  air. 
Where  are  now.  the  tear,  the  sigh  ? 
To  the  winds  they  fly,  they  fly ! 
Grasp  the  bowl ;  in  nectar  sinking ! 
Man  of  sorrow,  drown  thy  thinking ! 
Say,  can  the  tears  we  lend  to  thought 
In  life's  account  avail  us  aught  ? 
Can  we  discern  with  all  our  lore, 
The  path  we  've  yet  to  journey  o'er  ? 
Alas,  alas,  in  ways  so  dark, 
T  is  only  wine  can  strike  a  spark ! 


OPES    OF    AXACRF.ON.  271 

Then  let  me  quaff  the  foamy  tide, 

And  through  the  dance  meandering  glide ; 

Let  me  imbibe  the  spicy  breath 

Of  odors  chafed  to  fragrant  death ; 

Or  from  the  lips  of  love  inhale 

A  more  ambrosial,  richer  gale  ! 

To  hearts  that  court  the  phantom  Care, 

Let  him  retire  and  shroud  him  there  • 

While  we  exhaust  the  nectar'd  bowl, 

And  swell  the  choral  song  of  soul 

To  him,  the  god  who  loves  so  well 

The  nectar'd  bowl,  the  choral  swell 


ODE  XXXIX. 


How  I  love  the  festive  boy, 
Tripping  through  the  dance  of  joy 
How  I  love  the  mellow  sage, 
Smiling  through  the  veil  of  age ! 
And  whene'er  this  man  of  years 
In  the  dance  of  joy  appears, 
Snows  may  o'er  his  head  be  fiung, 
But  his  heart  —  his  heart  is  young. 


ODE  XL. 

I  know  that  Heaven  hath  sent  me  here 
To  run  this  mortal  life's  career ; 
The  scenes  which  I  have  journey'd  o'er, 
Return  no  more  —  alas  !  no  more  ; 
And  all  the  path  I  've  yet  to  go, 
I  neither  know  nor  ask  to  know. 
Away,  then,  wizard  Care,  nor  think 
Thy  fetters  round  this  soul  to  link ; 
Never  can  heart  that  feels  with  me 
Descend  to  be  a  slave  to  thee  ! 
And  oh !  before  the  vital  thrill 
Which  trembles  at  my  heart,  is  still, 
I  '11  gather  Joy's  luxuriant  flowers, 
And  gild  with  bliss  my  fading  hours ; 
Bacchus  shall  bid  my  winter  bloom 
And  Venus  dance  me  to  the  tomb. 


ODE  XLI. 


When  Spring  adorns  the  dewy  scene, 
How  sweet  to  walk  the  velvet  green, 
And  hear  the  west  wind's  gentle  sighs, 
As  o'er  the  scented  mead  it  flies  J 


ODES    OF    ANACREOPT.  273 

How  sweet  to  mark  the  pouting  vine, 

Read/  to  burst  in  tears  of  wine  ; 

And  with  some  maid,  who  breathes  but  Jov^ 

To  walk  at  noontide,  through  the  grove, 

Or  sit  in  some  cool,  srreen  recess  — 

Oh.  is  not  tins  true  happiness  ? 


ODE   XLII. 

Yes,  be  the  glorious  revel  mine, 
Where  humor  sparkles  from  the  wae. 
Around  me,  let  the  youthful  choir 
Respond  to  my  enlivening  lyre ; 
And  while  the  red  cup  foams  along, 
Mingle  in  soul  as  well  as  song. 
Then,  while  I  sit,  with  flow'rets  crown'd, 
To  regulate  the  goblet's  round, 
Let  but  the  nymph,  our  banquet's  pride. 
Be  seated  smiling  by  my  side, 
And  earth  has  not  a  gift  or  power 
That  I  would  envy  in  that  hour. 
Envy  !  —  oh  never  let  its  blight 
Touch  the  gay  hearts  met  here  to  night 
Far  hence  be  slander's  sidelong  wounds, 
Nor  harsh  disputes,  nor  discord's  sounda 
Disturb  a  scene,  where  all  should  be 
Attuned  to  peace  and  harmony. 


274  ODES    OF    A^iACKEON. 

Come,  let  us  hear  the  harp's  gay  note 
Upon  the  breeze  inspiring  float, 
While  round  us,  kindling  into  love, 
Young  maidens  through  the  light  dance  move* 
Thus  blest  with  mirth,  and  love,  and  peace, 
Sure  such  a  life  should  never  cease  . 


ODE  XLIIL 


While  our  rosy  fillets  shed 
Freshness  o'er  each  fervid  head, 
With  many  a  cup  and  many  a  smile 
The  festal  moments  we  beguile. 
And  while  the  harp,  impassion'd,  flings 
Tuneful  raptures  from  its  strings, 
Some  airy  nymph,  with  graceful  bound, 
Keeps  measure  to  the  music's  sound  ; 
Waving,  in  her  snowy  hand, 
The  leafy  Bacchanalian  wand, 
Which,  as  the  tripping  wanton  flies, 
Trembles  all  over  to  her  sighs. 
A  youth  the  while,  with  loosen'd  hair 
Floating  on  the  listless  air, 
Sings,  to  the  wild  harp's  tender  tonev 
A  tale  of  woes,  alas  !  Ms  own ; 
And  oh,  the  sadness  in  his  sigh, 
As  o'er  his  lip  the  accents  die  ! 
Never  sure  on  earth  has  been 
Half  so  bright,  so  blest  a  scene. 


ODES   OF   AXACREON. 

It  seems  as  Love  himself  had  come 
To  make  this  spot  his  chosen  home ; 
And  Venus,  too,  with  all  her  wiles, 
And  Bacchus,  shedding  rosy  smiles, 
All.  all  are  here,  to  hail  with  me 
The  Genius  of  Festivity  ! 


275 


ODE  XLIY. 


Buds  of  roses,  virgin  flowers, 

Cull'd  from  Cupid's  halmy  howers, 

In  the  howl  of  Bacchus  steep, 

Till  with  crimson  drops  they  weep. 

Twine  the  rose,  the  garland  twine, 

Every  leaf  distilling  wine  ; 

Drink  and  smile,  and  learn  to  think 

That  we  were  horn  to  smile  and  drink. 

Rose,  thou  art  the  sweetest  flower 

That  ever  drank  the  amber  shower  ; 

Rose,  thou  art  the  fondest  child 

Of  dimpled  Spring,  the  wood-nymph  wild. 

Even  the  Gods,  who  walk  the  sky, 

Are  amorous  of  thy  scented  sigh. 

Cupid,  too,  in  Paphian  shades, 

His  hair  with  rosy  fillet  braids, 

When,  with  the  blushing,  sister  Graces, 

The  wanton  winding  dance  he  traces. 

Then  bring  me,  showers  of  roses  bring, 

And  shed  them  o'er  me  while  I  sing, 


27G  ODES    OF    AKACREOS. 

Or  while,  great  Bacchus,  iound  thy  shrine, 
Wreathing  my  brow  with  rose  and  vine, 
I  lead  some  bright  nymph  through  the  dance. 
Commingling  soul  with  every  glance. 


ODE  XLV. 


Within  this  gobiet,  rich  and  deep, 

I  cradle  all  rny  woes  to  sleep. 

Why  should  we  breathe  the  sigh  of  tett, 

Or  pour  the  unavailing  tear  ? 

For  death  will  never  heed  the  sigh, 

Nor  soften  at  the  tearful  eye ; 

And  eyes  that  sparkle,  eyes  that  weep, 

Must  all  alike  be  seal'd  in  sleep. 

Then  let  us  never  vainly  stray, 

In  search  of  thorns,  from  Measure's  way; 

But  wisely  quaff  the  rosy  wave, 

Which  Bacchus  loves,  which  Bacchus  gave ; 

And  in  the  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 

Cradle  our  crying  woes  to  sleep. 


J 


2/7 


Behold,  the  young-,  the  rosy  Spring, 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing, 
While  virgin  Graces,  -warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o'er  her  dewy  way. 
The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languish'd  into  silent  sleep ; 
And  mark !  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  reflecting  wave ; 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 
Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away  ; 
And  cultured  field,  and  winding  stream, 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam- 
Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flowery  bells  ; 
Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine, 
Clusters  ripe  festoon  the  vine  ; 
All  along  the  branches  creeping, 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see, 
Nursing  into  lust.r: . 

24 


278 


ODE  XLVII. 

T  is  true,  my  fading  years  decline, 
Yet  can  I  quaff  the  brimming  wine, 
As  deep  as  any  stripling  fair, 
Whose  cheeks  the  flush  of  morning  wear; 
And  if,  amidst  the  wanton  crew, 
I  'm  call'd  to  wind  the  dance's  clew, 
Then  shalt  thou  see  this  vigorous  hand, 
Not  faltering  on  the  Bacchant's  wand, 
But  brandishing  a  rosy  flask, 
The  only  thyrsus  e'er  I  '11  ask ! 

Let  those,  who  pant  for  Glory's  charms, 
Embrace  her  in  the  field  of  arms : 
While  my  inglorious,  placid  soul 
Breathes  not  a  wish  beyond  this  bowl, 
Then  fill  it  high,  my  ruddy  slave, 
And  bathe  me  in  its  brimming  wave, 
For  though  my  fading  years  decay, 
Though  manhood's  prime  hath  pass'd  away, 
Like  old  Silenus,  sire  divine, 
With  blushes  borrow'd  from  my  wine 
I  '11  wanton  'mid  the  dancing  train, 
And  live  my  follies  o'er  again ! 


279 


ODE  XLVHl. 

When  my  thirsty  soul  I  steep. 
Every  sorrow  's  lull'd  to  sleep. 
Talk  of  monarchs !  I  am  then 
Richest,  happiest,  first  of  men ; 
Careless  o'er  my  cup  I  sing", 
Fancy  makes  me  more  than  king 
Gives  me  wealthy  Croesus'  store, 
Can  I,  can  I  wish  for  more  ? 
On  my  velvet  couch  reclining, 
Ivy  leaves  my  brow  entwining, 
While  my  soul  expands  with  glee. 
What  are  kings  and  crowns  to  m«  ' 
If  before  my  feet  they  lay, 
I  would  spurn  them  all  away  \ 
Arm-  ye,  arm  ye,  men  of  might, 
Hasten  to  the  sanguine  fight ; 
But  let  me,  my  budding  vine  ! 
Spill  no  other  blood  than  thine. 
Yonder  brimming  goblet  see, 
That  alone  shall  vanquish  me  — 
Who  think  it  better,  wiser  far 
To  fall  in  banquet  than  in  war 


280 


ODE  XLIX. 

When  Bacchus,  Jove's  immortal  boy, 
The  rosy  harbinger  of  joy, 
Who,  with  the  sunshine  of  the  bowl, 
Thaws  the  winter  of  our  soul  — 
When  to  my  inmost  core  he  glides, 
And  bathes  it  with  his  ruby  tides, 
A  flow  of  joy,  a  lively  heat, 
Fires  my  brain,  and  wings  my  feet, 
Calling  up  round  me  visions  known 
To  lovers  of  the  bowl  alone. 
Sing,  sing  of  love,  let  music's  sound 
In  melting  cadence  float  around, 
While,  my  young  Venus,  thou  and  I 
Responsive  to  its  murmurs  sigh. 
Then  waking  from  our  blissfid  trance, 
Again  we  '11  sport,  again  we  '11  dance. 


ODE  I* 


When  wine  I  quaff,  before  my  eyes 
Dreams  of  poetic  glory  rise  ; 
And  freshen'd  by  the  goblet's  dews, 
My  soul  invokes  the  heavenly  Muse. 


ODES    OF    ANACREOitf.  *^bl 

When  wine  I  drink,  all  sorrow 's  o'er ; 

I  think  of  doubts  and  fears  no  more ; 

But  scatter  to  the  railing  wind 

Each  gloomy  phantom  of  the  mind. 

When  I  drink  wine,  th'  ethereal  boy 

Bacchus  himself,  partakes  my  joy  ; 

And  while  we  dance  through  vernal  bowers, 

Whose  ev'ry  breath  comes  fresh  from  flowera, 

In  wine  he  makes  my  senses  swim, 

Till  the  gale  breathes  of  naught  but  him ! 


Again  I  drink,  —  and,  lo,  there  seems 
A  calmer  light  to  fill  my  dreams  ; 
The  lately  ruffled  wreath  I  spread 
Will  steadier  hand  around  my  head ; 
Then  take  the  lyre,  and  sing  "  how  blest 
The  life  of  him  who  lives  at  rest ! " 
But  then  comes  witching  wine  again, 
With  glorious  woman  in  its  train ; 
And,  while  rich  perfumes  round  me  rise, 
That  seem  the  breath  of  woman's  sighs, 
Bright  shapes,  of  every  hue  and  form, 
Upon  my  kindling  fancy  swarm, 
Till  the  whole  world  of  beauty  seems 
To  crowd  into  my  dazzled  dreams ! 


When  thus  I  drink,  my  heart  refines, 

And  rises  as  the  cup  declines ; 

Rises  in  the  genial  flow, 

That  none  but  social  spirits  know, 

When,  with  young  revellers,  round  the  bowl, 

The  old  themselves  grow  young  in  soul ! 

24* 


282  ODES   OF  ANACREON. 

Oh,  when  I  drink,  true  joy  is  mine, 
There  's  bliss  in  every  drop  of  wine. 
All  other  blessings  I  have  known, 
I  scarcely  dared  to  call  my  own ; 
But  this  the  Fates  can  ne'er  destroy, 
Till  death  o'ershadows  all  my  joy. 


^ 


IRISH    MELODIES. 


IRISH    MELODIES. 


GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But,  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh !  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee, 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee, 

Sweeter  far  may  be ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me! 

When,  at  eve,  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we  've  seen  it  burning. 

Oh !  thus  remember  me. 
Oft,  as  summer  closes, 
When  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  ling'ring  roses, 


L 


286  IRISH   MELODIES 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 

When,  around  thee  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me. 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee  ; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee,  — 

Oh !  th  en  remember  me. 


ERIN.    THE    TEAR    AND    THE    SMILE     IN 
THINE    EYES. 

Erin,  the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eyes, 
.    •    Blend  like  the  rainbow  that  hangs  in  thy  skies . 
Shining  through  sorrow's  stream, 
Saddening  through  pleasure's  beam, 
Thy  suns  with  doubtful  gleam, 
Weer  while  they  rise. 


IRISH     MELODIES.  287 

Erin,  thy  silent  tear  never  shall  cease, 
Erin,  thy  languid  smile  ne'er  shall  increase, 

Till,  like  the  rainbow's  light, 

Thy  various  tints  unite, 

And  form  in  heaven's  sight 
One  arch  of  peace ! 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled.  — 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts,  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells ; 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives, 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


283 


WAR   SONG 

REMEMBER  THE    GLORIES   OF   BRIEN   THE  BRAVE. 

Remember,  the  glories  of  Brien  the  brave, 

Tho'  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o*er; 
Tho'  lost  to  Mononia,  and  cold  in  the  grave, 

He  returns  to  Kinkora  no  more. 
That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  hath  pour  d 

Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set; 
But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword, 

To  light  us  to  victory  yet- 

Mononia !  when  Nature  embellish'd  the  tint 

Of  thy  fields,  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 
Did  she  ever  intend  that  a  tyrant  should  print 

The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 
No !  Freedom,  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 

Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 
That 't  is  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  snnne, 

Than  to  sleep  but  a  moment  in  chains. 

Forget  not  cur  wounded  companions,  who  stood 

In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side  ; 
While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their  blocd, 

They  stirr'd  not,  but  conquer'd  and  died. 
That  sun  which  now  blesses  our  anus  with  his  light, 

Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory's  plain ;  — 
Oh !  let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night, 

To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain. 


289 


OH!  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME. 

On !  breathe  not  his  name  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid  : 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark,  be  the  tears  that  Ave  shed, 
As  die  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS  SHE 
WORE. 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 
And  a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore ; 
But  oh  !  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 
Her  sparkling  irems,  or  snow-white  wand. 

"  Lady  i  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 

So  lone  and  lovely  through  this  bleak  way  ? 

Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold, 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ?  " 

25 


290  IRISH    MELODIES. 

'  Sir  Knight!  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm, 
No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm :  — 
For  though  they  love  woman  and  golden  store, 
Sir  Knight !  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more ! " 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  Green  Isle , 
And  blest  for  ever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin's  honor  and  Erin:s  pride. 


AS  A  BEAM  O'ER  THE  FACE  OF  THE 
WATERS  MAY  GLOW. 

As  a  beam  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters  may  glow, 
While  the  tide  runs  in  darkness  and  coldness  below, 
So  the  cheek  may  be  tinged  with  a  warm  sunny  smile, 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly  the  whiie_ 

One  fatal  remembrance,  one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 
To  whicn  me  nothing  dancer  or  brighter  can  bring 
For  which  joy  has  no  balm  and  affliction  no  sting  — 

Oh!  this  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment  will  stay, 
Like  a  dead,  leafless  branch  in  the  summer's  bright  ray 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in  vain, 
It  may  smile  in  its  light,  but  it  blooms  not  again. 


291 


TAKE    BACK    THE    VIRGIN    PAGE, 

•WKITTEN'   OX   RETURNING  A   BIAXK   BOOK. 

Take  back  tlie  virgin  page, 

White  and  unwritten  still ; 
Some  hand,  more  calm  and  sage 

The  leaf  must  fill. 
Thoughts  come,  as  pure  as  light, 

Pure  as  even  you  require  : 
But,  oh  !  each  word  I  write 

Love  turns  to  lire. 

Yet  let  me  keep  the  book . 

Oil  shall  my  heart  renew, 
When  on  its  leaves  I  look, 

Dear  thoughts  of  yo 
Like  you,  :t  is  fair  ana  bright, 

Like  you  too  bright  and  fair 
To  let  wild  passion  write 

One  wrong  wis;;  there. 

Haply,  when  from  those  eyes 

Far,  far  away  I  roam, 
Should  calmer  thoughts  arise 

Tow'rds  you  and  home  ; 
Fancy  may  trace  some  line, 

Worthy  those  eyes  to  meet, 
Thoughts  that  not  burn,  but  shine, 

Pure,  cairn,  and  sweet. 


292  IRISH    MELODIES. 

And  as,  o'er  ocean  far, 

Seamen  their  records  kee?, 
Led  by  some  hidden  star 

Through  the  cold  deep ; 
So  may  the  words  I  write 

Tell  thro'  what  storms  I  stray 
You  still  the  unseen  light 

Guiding  my  way. 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OP  OLD. 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betray'd  her ; 
When  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold, 

Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader, 
When  her  kings,  with  standard  of  green  unfurl'd, 

Led  the  Red-Branch  Knights  to  danger;  — 
Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 

Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger. 

On  Lougli  Neagh's  bank,  as  the  fisherman  strays, 

When  the  clear  cold  eve  's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 

In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining; 
Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime, 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over; 
Thus,  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  Vma 

For  the  long  faded  glories  they  corer 


293 


EVELEEN'S   BOWER. 

Oh  !  weep  for  the  hour, 

When  to  Eveleen's  bower 
Th?  Lord  of  the  Valley  with  false  vows  came; 

The  moon  hid  her  light 

From  the  heavens  that  night, 
AnJ  wept  behind  her  clouds  o'er  the  maiden's  shame. 

The  clouds  pass'd  soon 

From  the  chaste  cold  moon, 
And  heaven  smiled  again  with  her  vestal  flame 

But  none  will  see  the  day, 

When  the  clouds  shall  pass  away, 
Which  that  dark  hour  left  upon  Eveleen's  fame. 

The  white  snow  lay 

On  the  narrow  path-way, 
Arhen  the  Lord  of  the  Valley  cross'd  over  the  moor  ; 

And  many  a  deep  print 

On  the  white  snow's  tint 
^how'd  the  track  of  his  footstep  to  Eveleen's  door. 

The  next  sun's  ray 

Soon  melted  away 
fivery  trace  on  the  path  where  the  false  Lord  came , 

But  there 's  a  light  above 

Which  alone  can  remove 
That  3tain  upon  the  snow  of  fair  Eveleen's  fame. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

Oh  .  the  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove  ; 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night, 
Was  love,  still  love. 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there  's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life, 

As  love's  young  dream : 
No,  there  'a  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life, 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth  's  past ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frown'd  before^ 
To  smile  at  last ; 
He  '11  never  meet 
A  joy  so  sweet, 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 
And  at  every  close,  she  blush'd  to  hear 
The  one  loved  name. 

No,  —  that  hallow'd  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  traced ; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 

Ou  memory's  waste. 


IRISH     MELODIES  295 

T  was  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  ; 
'T  was  mornings  winged  dream ; 
T  was  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream ; 
Oh !  't  was  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream. 


ERIN,   OH   ERIN. 

Like  the  bright  lamp,  that  shone  in  Kildar's  holy  fane, 
And  buni'd  thro'  lor.  darkness  and  storm, 

Is  the  heart  that  sorrov  m'd  on  in  vain, 

Whose  spirit  outli\  ing  and  warm. 

Erin,  oh  Erin,  thus  hi 

Of  a  long  night  of  bonda*.  ■  t  appears. 

The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art  young, 
Thy  sun  is  but  rising,  when  others  are  set ; 

And  tho'  si  ud  o'er  thy  morning  hath  hung 

The  full  noon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet 
in,  tho'  long  in  the  sh 

Thy  star  shall  shine  c  3  proudest  shall  fade, 

Unchlll'd  by  the  rain,  and  unwaked  by  the  wind, 
The  lily  lies  sleeping  tliro'  winter's  coM  hour, 

Till  Spring's  light  torch  her  fetters  unbind, 

And  daylight  and  li  young  flower. 

Thus  Erin,  oh  Erin,  thy  winter  is  past, 

And  the  hope  that  lived  thro'  it  shall  blossom  at  last 


296 


I'D  MOURN  THE  HOPES. 

I  'd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me, 

If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too, 
I  'd  weep  when  friends  deceive  me, 

If  thou  wert,  like  them,  untrue. 
But  while  I  've  thee  before  me, 

With  hearts  so  warm  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me, 

That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 


T  is  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

While  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me ; 
'T  is  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shared  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee  ^ 

Were  worth  a  long,  an  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee, 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear ! 


And  though  the  hope  be  gone,  love, 

That  long  sparkled  o'er  our  way, 
we  shall  journey  on,  love, 

More  safely,  without  its  ray. 
^ar  better  lights  shall  win  me 

Along  the  path  I  've  yet  to  roam : 
The  mind  that  burns  within  me, 

And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home 


IRISH    MELODIES. 


297 


Thus  when  the  lamp  that  lighted 

The  traveller  at  first  goes  out, 
He  feels  awhile  benighted, 

And  looks  round  in  fear  and  doubt 
Hut  soon,  the  prospect  clearing, 

By  cloudless  starlight  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering^ 

As  that  light  which  Heaven  sheds. 


OH  THE  SHAMROCK. 

Throcgu  Erin's  Isle, 
To  sport  awhile, 
As  Love  and  Valor  wanderM, 
With  Wit,  the  sprite, 
Whose  quiver  bright 
A  thousand  arrows  squander'd. 
Where'er  they  pass, 
A  triple  grass 
Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming, 
As  softly  green 
As  emeralds  seen 
Through  purest  crystal  gleaming. 
Oh  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock 
Chosen  leaf, 
Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock ! 


898  IRISH    MELODIES. 

Says  Valor,  "  See 

They  spring  for  me, 
Those  leafy  gems  of  morning !  "  — 

Says  Love,  "  No,  no, 

For  me  they  grow, 
My  fragrant  path  adorning." 

But  Wit  perceives 

The  triple  leaves, 
And  cries,  "  Oh  !  do  not  sever 

A  type,  that  blends 

Three  godlike  friends, 
Love,  Valor,  Wit,  for  ever ! " 
Oh  the  Shamreck,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 

So  firmly  fond 

May  last  the  bond 
They  wove  that  morn  together, 

And  ne'er  may  fall 

One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit's  celestial  feather. 

May  Love,  as  twine 

His  flowers  divine, 
Of  thorny  falsehood  weed  'em ; 

May  Valor  ne'er 

His  standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom ! 
Oh  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock 


299 


FAREWELL!  — BUT  WHENEVER  YOU 
WELCOME  THE  HOUR. 

Farewell  .  —  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour, 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brighten'd  his  pathway  of  pain. 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision,  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  ling'ring  with  you 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
My  soul,  happy  friends,  shall  be  with  you  that  night  ,■ 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles, 
And  return  to  me,  beaming  all  o'er  with  your  smiles 
Too  bles%  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  had  murmur'd,  "I  wish  he  were  here '  * 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy , 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  fill'd  ! 
Like  the  vase,  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distill'd— 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  ot  the  roses  will  hanjr  round  it  still. 


300 


TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER 

T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I  '11  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one . 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  J  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away. 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh!  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone ! 


301 


HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  DAYS 
SHADED. 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o'er  the  morning  fleet  ? 
Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That,  ev'n  in  sorrow,  were  sweet ' 
Does  Time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear?  — 
Then,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 

I  '11  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

Has  love  to  that  soul,  so  tender, 

Been  like  our  Lagenian  mine, 
Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendor 

All  over  the  surface  shine  — 
But,  if  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 

Allured  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 
Ah !  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  Love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone 

Has  Hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story, 
That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree 

With  the  talisman's  glitt'ring  glory  — 
Has  Hope  been  that  bird  to  thee? 

On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 
The  gem  did  she  still  display, 

And,  when  nearest  and  most  inviting; 

Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away  ? 
26 


302  IRISH     MELODIES. 

If  thus  the  young  hours  have  fleeted, 

When  sor-row  itself  look'd  bright; 
If  thus  the  fair  hope  hath  cheated, 

That  led  thee  along  so  ligb* ; 
If  thus  the  cold  world  now  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  ■    - 
Come,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 

I  'U  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 


THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

The  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  war  s  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you  11  rind  him ; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  swung  behind  him. — 
"  Land  of  song !  "  said  the  warrior  bard, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee !  " 

The  Minstrel  fell !  —  but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder ; 
And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  sha1!  never  sound  in  slavery." 


303 


OH!  HAD  WE   SOME   BRIGHT  LITTLE 
ISLE   OP  OUR  OWN. 

On  !  Lad  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 
In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone, 
Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still  blooming  bowers, 
And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowera 

Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 
With  so  fond  a  delay, 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day ; 
Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give. 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime, 
We  should  love,  as  they  loved  in  the  first  golden  time 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air, 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts,  and  make  all  summer  there, 
With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers, 
And,  with  hope,  like  the  bee, 

Living  always  on  flowers, 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light. 
And  our  death  come  on,  holy  and  calm  as  the  night 


304 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Eveiy  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes, 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses* 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


Sages  can,  they  say, 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starr'd  dominions :  — 
So  we,  Sages,  sit, 

And  'mid  bumpers  bright'ning. 
From  the  Heaven  of  Wit 

Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 


Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 
Made  our  souls  inherit 

This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit  ? 


IRISH    MELODIES.  305 

It  chanced  upon  that  day, 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us 

The  careless  Youth,  when  np 

To  Glory's  fount  aspiring, 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfer'd  fire  in.  — 
But  oh  his  joy,  when  round 

The  halls  of  Heaven  spying, 
Among  the  stars  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying ! 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl, 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure 
With  which  the  Sparks  of  Soul 

Mix'd  their  burning  treasure. 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us  ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us ; 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle 
26* 


300 


AS   SLOW   OUR   SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  Isle  't  was  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us ; 
So  turn  our  hearts  as  on  wc  rove, 

To  those  we  've  left  behind  us. 


When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming,  — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tearo, 

So  faint,  and  sad  their  beaming ; 
While  mem'ry  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we  've  left  behind  us. 


And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle,  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flow'ry,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  biiss, 

If  Heav'n  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we  've  left  behind  us ' 


IRISH     MELODIES.  307 

As  trav'lers^oft  look  back  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing,  — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


I   SAW  FROM  THE  BEACH. 

i  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on ; 

f  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining, 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known  ; 

Each  wave,  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us, 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Ne'er  tell  une  of  glories,  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ,  — 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  cf 
Morning, 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best 
light 


308 


IN  THE  MORNING   OF  LIFE. 

Js  the  morning  of  life,  when  its  cares  are  unknown, 

And  its  pleasures  in  all  their  new  lustre  begin, 
When  we  live  in  a  bright-beaming  world  of  our  own, 

And  the  light  that  surrounds  us  is  all  from  within  ; 
Oh  't  is  not,  believe  me,  in  that  happy  time 

We  can  love,  as  in  hours  of  less  transport  we  may ;  — 
Of  our  smiles,  of  our  hopes,  't  is  the  gay  sunny  prime. 

But  affection  is  truest  when  these  fade  away. 

When  we  see  the  first  glory  of  youth  pass  us  by, 

Like  a  leaf  on  the  stream  that  will  never  return ; 
When  our  cup,  which  had  sparkled  with  pleasure  so  high, 

First  tastes  of  the  other,  the  dark-flowing  urn ; 
Then,  then  is  the  time  when  affection  holds  sway 

With  a  depth  and  a  tenderness  joy  never  knew  ; 
Love,  nursed  among  pleasures,  is  faithless  as  they, 

But  the  Love  born  of  Sorrow,  like  Sorrow,  is  true. 

In  climes  full  of  sunshine,  though  splendid  the  flowers, 

Their  sighs  have  no  freshness,  their  odor  no  worth ; 
'T  is  the  cloud  and  the  mist  of  our  own  Isle  of  showers. 

That  call  the  ricn  spirit  of  fragrancy  forth. 
So  it  is  not  mid  splendor,  prosperity,  mirth, 

That  the  depth  of  Love's  generous  spirit  appears ; 
To  the  sunshine  of  smiles  it  may  first  owe  its  birth, 

But  the  soul  of  its  sweetness  i3  drawn  out  by  tears, 


309 


WHERE  IS  THE  SLAVE. 

Oh,  where  'a  the  slave  so  lowly, 
Condcran'd  to  chains  unholy, 

Who,  could  he  burst 

His  bonds  at  first, 
Would  pine  beneath  them  slowly? 
What  soul,  whose  wrongs  degrade  it, 
Would  wait  till  time  decay'd  it, 

When  thus  its  wing 

At  once  may  spring 
To  the  throne  of  Him  who  made  it  ? 

Farewell,  Erin,  —  farewell,  all, 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall ! 

Less  dear  the  laurel  growing, 
Alive,  untouch'd  and  blowing, 

Than  that,  whose  braid 

Is  pluck'd  to  shade 
The  brows  with  victory  glowing. 
We  tread  the  land  that  bore  us, 
Her  green  flag  glitters  o'er  us, 

The  friends  we  've  tried 

Are  by  our  side, 
And  the  foe  we  hate  before  us. 

Farewell,  Erin,  —  Farewell,  all, 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall ! 


310 


WREATH  THE  BOWL. 

Wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We  '11  take  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 
Should  Love  amid 
The  wreaths  be  hid, 

That  Joy,  th'  enchanter,  brings  u% 
No  danger  fear, 
While  wine  is  near, 

We  '11  drown  him  if  lie  stings  us  \ 
Then,  wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us : 
We  '11  take  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  ua 


*T  was  nectar  fed 

Of  old,  't  is  said, 
Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos  ; 

And  man  may  brew 

His  nectar  too, 
The  rich  receipt's  as  follows 

Take  wine  like  this, 

Let  looks  of  bliss 


IRISH     MEL0DIE3.  311 

Around  it  well  be  blended, 

Then  bring  Wit's  beam 

To  warm  the  stream, 
And  there 's  your  nectar,  splendid 

So  wreath  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 

We  '11  take  a  flight 

Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  ud. 

Say,  why  did  Time, 

His  glass  sublime, 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 

When  wine,  he  knew, 

Runs  brisker  through, 
And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 

Oh,  lend  it  us, 

And,  smiling  thus, 
The  glass  in  two  we  '11  sever, 

Make  pleasure  glide 

In  double  tide, 
And  fill  both  ends  forever ! 

Then  wreath  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us 

We  '11  take  a  flight 

Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  ua. 


;i2 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

Br  the  hope  within  us  springing1, 

Herald  of  to-morrow's  strife  ; 
By  that  sun,  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life  — 
Oh !  remember  life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him,  who  lives  not  free ! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  in  his  grave, 
Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears. 


Happy  is  he  o'er  whose  decline 
The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shme, 
And  light  him  down  the  steep  of  years :  — 
But  oh,  how  blest  they  sink  to  rest, 
Who  close  their  eyes  on  Victory's  breast 


O'er  his  watch-fire's  fading  embers 

Now  the  foeman's  cheek  turns  white, 
When  his  heart  that  field  remembers, 

Where  we  tamed  his  tyrant  might. 
Never  let  him  bind  again 
A  chain,  like  that  we  broke  from  then. 

Hark !  the  horn  of  combat  calls  — 

Ere  the  golden  evening  falls, 
May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round ! 


IRISH     M.EL0DIES.  313 

Many  a  heart  that  now  beats  high, 
In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie, 
Nor  waken  even  at  victory's  sound :  — 
But  oh,  how  blest  that  hero's  sleep, 
O'er  whom  a  wond'ring  world  shall  weep 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightnings  show'd  the  distant  hill, 
Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day, 

Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still. 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal, 

For  ever  dimrn'd,  for  ever  cross'd  — 
Oh  !  who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 

When  all  but  life  and  honor 's  lost  ? 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream, 

And  valor's  task,  moved  slowly  by, 
While  mute  they  watch'd,  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die. 
There  s  yet  a  world,  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature's  bliss  ;  — 
If  death  that  world's  bright  opening  be, 

Oh !  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this  ? 

97 


314 


ONE  BUMPER  AT  PARTING. 

0>~e  bumper  at  parting !  —  though  many 

Have  circled  the  board  since  we  met, 
The  fullest,  the  saddest  of  any, 

Remains  to  be  erown'd  by  us  yet 
The  sweetness  that  pleasure  hath  in  it, 

Is  always  so  slow  to  come  forth, 
That  seldom,  alas,  till  the  minute 

It  dies,  do  we  know  half  its  worth. 
But  come,  —  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up ; 
They  're  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

As  onward  we  journey,  how  pleasant 

To  pause  and  inhabit  awhUe 
Those  few  sunny  spots,  like  the  present, 

That  'mid  the  dull  wilderness  smile  ! 
But  Time,  like  a  pitiless  master, 

Cries  "  Onward ! "  and  spurs  the  gay  hour- 
Ah,  never  doth  Time  travel  faster, 

Than  when  his  way  lies  among  flowers. 
But  come,  —  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up ; 
They  're  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

We  saw  how  the  sun  look'd  in  sinking, 
The  waters  beneath  him  how  bright ; 


IRISH   MELODIES.  315 

And  now,  let  our  farewell  of  drinking 

Resemble  that  farewell  of  light. 
You  saw  how  he  finish'd,  by  darting 

His  beam  o'er  a  billow's  brim  — 
So,  fill  up,  let 's  shine  at  our  parting, 

In  full  liquid  glory,  like  him. 
And  oh !  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Of  moments  like  this  be  made  up, 
'T  was  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 

It  dies  'mid  the  tears  of  the  cup 


WHILE  GAZING  ON  THE  MOON'S  LIGHT 

While  gazing  on  the  moon's  light, 

A  moment  from  her  smile  I  turn'd, 
To  look  at  orbs,  that,  more  bright, 
In  lone  and  distant  glory  burn'd. 
But  too  far 
Each  proud  star, 
For  me  to  feel  its  warming  flame  , 
Much  more  dear 
That  mild  sphere, 
Which  near  our  planet  smiling  came ;  — 
Thus,  Mary,  be  but  thou  my  own ; 

While  brighter  eyes  unheeded  play, 
i  '11  love  those  moonlight  looks  alone, 
That  bless  my  home  and  guide  my  way 


316  IRISH    BIEL0DIE3. 

The  day  had  sunk  in  dim  showers, 

But  midnight  now,  with  lustre  meet, 
Illumined  all  the  pale  flowers, 
Like  hope  upon  a  mourner's  cheek. 
I  said  (while 
Tiie  moon's  smile 
Play'd  o'er  a  stream,  in  dimpling  bliss^ 
"  The  moon  looks 
On  many  brooks  ; 
The  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this  ; " 
And  thus,  I  thought,  our  fortunes  ran. 

For  many  a  lover  looks  to  thee, 
While  oh!  I  feel  there  is  but  one, 
0)ie  Mary  in  the  wo-ld  tor  me. 


COME  O'ER  THE  SEA. 

Come  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden,  with  me, 

Mine  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows ; 
Seasons  may  roll, 
But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same,  where'er  it  goes. 
Let  fate  frown  on,  so  we  love  and  part  not ; 
*T  is  life  where  thou  art,  't  is  death  where  thou  'rt  not 
Then  come  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden,  with  me. 


IRISH    MELODIES.  317 

Come  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows ; 

Seasons  may  roll, 

But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same,  where'er  it  goes 


Was  not  the  sea 
Made  for  the  Free, 
Land  for  courts  and  chains  alone  ? 
Here  we  are  slaves, 
But,  on  the  waves, 
Love  and  Liberty  's  all  our  own. 
No  eye  to  watch,  and  no  tongue  to  wound  us, 
All  earth  forgot,  and  all  heaven  around  us  — 
Then  come  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden,  with  me, 
Mine  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows 
Seasons  may  roll, 
But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same,  where'er  it  goes 


COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  &tiB 

here ; 
Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thv  own  to  the  last 

27* 


318  IRISH     MELODIES. 

Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  't  is  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torment,  Uirougli  glory  and 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart,   [shame  ? 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art 

Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 
And  thy  Angel  I  '11  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  —  or  perish  there  too ' 


WHENE'ER  I  SEE  THOSE  SMILING  EYES. 

Whene'er  I  see  those  smiling  eyes, 

So  full  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  light, 
As  if  no  cloud  could  ever  rise, 

To  dim  a  heav'n  so  purely  bright  — 
I  sigh  to  think  how  soon  that  brow 

In  grief  may  lose  its  every  ray, 
And  that  light  heart,  so  joyous  now, 

Almost  forget  it  once  was  gay. 

For  time  will  come  with  all  its  blights, 

The  ruin'd  hope,  the  friend  unkind, 
And  love,  that  leaves,  where'er  it  lights, 

A  chill  or  burning  heart  behind :  — 
While  youth,  that' now  like  snow  appears, 

Ere  sullied  by  the  dark'ning  rain, 
When  once  't  is  touch'd  by  sorrow's  tears, 

Can  never  shine  so  brigl  t  again. 


319 


ON  MUSIC. 

When  thro'  life  unblest  we  rove, 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 
Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love, 

In  days  of  boyhood,  meet  our  ear, 
Oh !  how  welcome  breathes  the  strain . 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept; 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept 

Like  the  gale,  that  sighs  along 

Beds  of  oriental  flowers, 
Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song, 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours  ■ 
Fill'd  with  balm,  the  gale  sighs  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death; 
So,  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone, 

Its  memory  lives  in  Music's  breath. 

Music,  oh  how  faint,  how  weak, 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 
Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak, 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 
Friendship's  balmy  words  may  feign, 

Love's  are  ev'n  more  false  than  they ; 
Oh !  't  is  only  music's  strain 

Can  sweetly  sooth  and  not  betray. 


320 


SHE  SUNG  OF  LOVE. 

ShSe  sung  of  Love,  while  o'er  her  lyre 

The  rosy  rays  of  evening  fell, 
As  if  to  feed,  with  their  soft  fire, 

The  soul  within  that  trembling  shell. 
The  same  rich  light  hung  o'er  her  cheek, 

And  play'd  around  those  lips  that  sung 
And  spoke,  as  flowers  would  sing  and  speak, 

If  Love  could  lend  their  leaves  a  tongue. 

But  soon  the  West  no  longer  burn'd, 

ech  rosy  ray  from  heav'n  withdrew  • 
And  when,  to  gaze  again  I  turn'd, 

The  minstrel's  form  seem'd  fading  too. 
As  if  her  light  and  heav'n's  were  one 

The  glory  all  had  left  that  frame ; 
And  from  her  glimmering  lips  the  tone, 

As  from  a  parting  spirit,  came. 

Who  ever  loved,  but  had  the  thought 

That  he  and  all  he  loved  must  part  ? 
Fill'd  with  this  fear,  I  flew  and  caught 

The  fading  image  to  my  heart  — 
And  cried,  "  Oil  Love  !  is  this  thy  doom ! 

Oh  light  of  youth's  resplendent  day  ! 
Must  ye  then  lose  your  golden  bloom, 

And  thus,  like  sunshine,  die  away  ?  " 


321 


ALONE  IN  CROWDS  TO  WANDER  ON. 

Alone  in  crowds  to  wander  on, 

And  feel  that  all  the  charm  is  gone 

Which  voices  dear  and  eyes  beloved 

Shed  round  us  once,  where'er  we  roved  — 

This,  this  the  doom  must  be, 

Of  all  who  we  loved,  and  lived  to  see 

The  few  bright  things  they  thought  would  stay 

Forever  near  them,  die  away. 

Tho'  fairer  forms  around  us  throng, 

Their  smiles  to  others  all  belong, 

And  want  that  charm  which  dwells  alone 

Round  those  the  fond  heart  calls  its  own. 

Where,  where  the  sunny  brow  ? 

The  long-known  voice  —  where  are  they  no«  ? 

Thus  ask  I  still,  nor  ask  in  vain, 

The  silence  answers  all  too  plain. 

Oh,  what  is  Fancy's  magic  worth, 
If  all  her  art  cannot  call  forth 
One  bliss  like  those  we  felt  of  old 
From  lips  now  mute,  and  eyes  now  cold  ? 
No,  no,  —  her  spell  is  vain,— 
As  soon  could  she  bring  back  again 
Those  eyes  themselves  from  out  the  grave, 
As  wake  again  one  bliss  they  gave. 


322 


THEY  KNOW  NOT  MY  HEART. 

'They  know  not  my  heart,  who  believe  there  can  be 
One  stain  of  this  earth  in  its  feelings  for  thee  ; 
Who  think,  while  I  see  thee  in  beauty's  young  hour 
As  pure  as  the  morning's  first  dew  on  the  flow'r, 
I  could  harm  what  I  love,  —  as  the  sun's  wanton  ray 
But  smiles  on  the  dew-drop  to  waste  it  away. 

No  —  beaming  with  light  as  those  young  features  are. 
There 's  a  light  round  thy  heart  which  is  lovelier  far: 
It  is  not  that  check  —  't  is  the  soul  dawning  clear 
Thro'  its  innocent  blush  makes  thy  beauty  so  dear ; 
As  the  sky  we  look  up  to,  though  glorious  and  fair, 
Is  look'd  up  to  the  more,  because  Heaven  lies  there ! 


ECHO. 


How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 

To  music  at  night, 
When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away,  o'er  lawns  and  lakes, 

Goes  answering  light 


IRISH    MELODIES. 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far, 

And  far  more  sweet, 
Than  e'er  beneath  the  moonlight's  star. 
Of  horn,  or  lute,  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 

'T  is  when  the  sigh,  in  youth  sincere, 

And  only  then,  — 
The  sigh  that 's  breathed  for  one  to  hear, 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  dear, 

Breathed  back  again ! 


323 


THO'  THE  LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN  WITH 
SORROW   I  SEE. 

Tho'  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I  see, 

Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me ; 

In  exile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  my  home, 

And  thine  eyes  make  my  climate  wherever  we  roam. 

To  the  gloom  of  some  desert  or  cold  rocky  shore, 
Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  haunt  us  no  more, 
I  will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the  rough  wind 
Less  rude  than  the  foes  we  leave  frowning  behind. 

And  I  '11  gaze  on  thy  gold  hair  as  graceful  it  wreaths, 
And  hang  o'er  thy  soft  harp,  as  wildly  it  breathes  ; 
Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will  tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from  that  hair. 


324 


AS   VANQUISH!)  ERIN 

As  vanquish'd  Erin  wept  beside 

The  Boyne's  ill-fated  river. 
She  saw  where  Discord,  in  the  tide, 

Had  iropp'd  his  loaded  quiver. 
u  Lie  hid,"  slio  cried,  "  ye  venom'd  darts, 

Where  mortal  eye  may  shun  you ; 
Lie  hid  —  the  stain  of  manly  hearts, 

That  bled  for  me,  is  on  you." 

But  vain  her  wish,  her  weeping  vain, — 

As  Time  too  well  hath  taught  her  — 
Each  year  the  Fiend  returns  again, 

And  dives  into  that  water  ; 
And  brings,  triumphant,  from  beneath 

His  shafts  of  desolation, 
And  sends  them,  wing'd  with  worse  than  death, 

Through  all  her  madd'ning  nation. 

Alas  for  her  who  sits  and  mourns,  / 

Ev'n  now,  beside  that  river  — 
Unwearied  still  the  Fiend  returns, 

And  stored  is  still  his  quiver. 
"  When  will  this  end,  ye  Powers  of  Good  ?  * 

She  weeping  asks  for  ever ; 
But  only  hears,  from  out  that  flood, 

The  Demon  answer,  "  Never ' ' 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past ; 

Your  dreams  of  pride  are  o'er ; 
The  fatal  chain  is  round  you  cast, 

And  you  are  men  no  more. 
In  vain  the  hero's  heart  hath  bled ; 

The  sage's  tongue  hath  warn'd  in  vain; 
Oh,  Freedom !  once  thy  flame  hath  fled, 

It  never  lights  again, 

Weep  on  —  perhaps  in  after  days, 

They'll  learn  to  love  your  name  ; 
When  many  a  deed  may  wake  in  praise 

That  long  hath  slept  in  blame. 
And  when  they  tread  the  ruin'd  Isle, 

Where  rest,  at  length,  the  lord  and  slave, 
They  '11  wond'ring  ask,  how  hands  so  vile 

Could  conquer  hearts  so  brave  ? 

"'Twas  fate,"  they'll  say,  "a  wayward  fate 

Your  web  of  discord  wove  ; 
And  while  your  tyrants  join'd  in  hate, 

You  never  join'd  in  love. 
But  hearts  fell  off  that  ought  to  twine, 

And  man  profaned  what  God  had  given , 
Till  some  were  heard  to  curse  the  shrine 

Where  others  knelt  to  heaven ! " 

28 


DEAR  HARP   OF  MY   COUNTRY. 

Dear  Harp  of  rny  Country  !  in  darkness  I  found  thee,, 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hurg  o'er  thee  long, 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I  unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  iireedom,  and  song! 
The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 

Have  waken'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ; 
But,  so  oft  hast  thou  echo'd  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness 

That  ev'n  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country  !  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 

This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 

Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  't  is  thy  glory  alone; 
I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 

And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  waked  was  thy  own. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE. 

Ix  yonder  valley  there  dwelt,  alone, 

A  youth,  whose  moments  had  calmly  flown, 

Till  6pells  came  o'er  him,  and,  day  and  night, 

He  was  haunted  and  watch'd  by  a  Mountain  Strita, 


IRISH    MELODIES.  32? 


As  once,  by  moonlight,  he  wander'd  o'er 
The  golden  sands  of  that  island  shore, 
A  footprint  sparkled  before  his  sight  - 
'T  was  the  fairy  foot  of  the  Mountain  Sprite 


Beside  a  fountain,  one  sunny  day, 

As  bending  over  the  stream  he  lay, 

There  peep'd  down  o'er  him  two  eyes  of  light, 

And  lie  saw  in  that  mirror  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

He  turn'd,  but,  lo,  like  a  startled  bird, 

That  spirit  ilcd  !  —  and  the  youth  but  heard 

Sweet  music,  such  aa  marks  the  flight 

Of  some  bird  of  song,  from  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

One  night,  still  haunted  by  that  bright  look, 

The  boy,  bewilder'd,  his  pencil  took, 

And,  guided  only  by  memory's  light, 

Drew  the  once-seen  form  of  the  Mountain  Sprite, 

"Oh  thou,  who  lovest  the  shade,"  c.  \s\ 
A  voice,  low  whisp'ring  by  his  side, 
"Now  turn  and  see,"  —  here  the  youth's  delight 
Seal'd  the  rosy  lips  of  the  Mountain  Sprite 

"  Of  all  the  Spirits  of  land  and  sea," 

Then  rapt  lie  murmurd,  "  there  's  none  like  thee; 

And  oft,  oh  oft,  may  thy  foot  thus  light 

in  this  bnoly  bower,  sweet  Mountain  Sprite  '  " 


1 


328 


LAY  HIS  SWORD  BY  HIS  SIDE. 

I.iy  his  sword  by  his  side,  it  hath  served  him  too  weL 

Not  to  rest  near  his  pillow  below; 
To  the  last  moment  true,  from  his  hand  ere  it  fell, 

Its  point  was  still  turn'd  to  a  flying  foe. 
Fellow-lab'rers  in  life,  let  them  slumber  in  death, 

Side  by  side,  as  becomes  the  reposing  brave,  — 
That  sword  which  he  loved  still  unbroke  in  its  sheath, 

And  himself  unsubdued  in  his  grave. 

Yet.  pause  —  for,  in  fancy,  a  still  voice  I  hear, 

As  if  breathed  from  his  brave  heart's  remains  ,  — 
Faint  echo  of  that  which,  in  Slavery's  ear, 

Once  sounded  the  war-word,  "  Burst  your  chains  ! " 
And  it  cries,  from  the  grave  where  the  hero  lies  deep, 

"  Tho'  the  day  of  your  Chieftain  forever  hath  set, 
O  leave  not  his  sword  thus  inglorious  to  sleep,  — 

It  hath  victory's  life  in  it  yet ! 

"  Should  some  alien,  unworthy  such  weapon  to  wield. 

Dare  to  touch  thee,  my  own  gallant  sword, 
Then  rest  in  thy  sheath,  like  a  talisman  seal'd, 

Or  return  to  tfie  grave  of  thy  chainless  lord. 
But,  if  grasp' d  by  a  hand  that  hath  learn'd  the  proud  use 

Of  a  falchion,  like  thee,  on  the  battle-plain,  — 
Then,  at  Liberty's  summons,  like  lightning  let  loose, 

Leap  forth  from  thy  dark  sheath  again  ! " 


rc:i 


OH,   COULD   WE  DO   WITH   THIS  WORLD 
OF  OURS. 

On,  could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dost  witli  thy  garden  bowers, 
Reject  the  weeds  and  keep  the  flowers, 

What  a  heaven  on  earth  we  'd  make  it ! 
So  bright  a  dwelling  should  be  our  own, 
So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown, 
That  angels  soon  would  be  coming  down, 


• 


By  the  week  or  month  to  take  it 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  through  air, 
And  in  themselves  a  lustre  bear, 
A  stock  of  light,  still  ready  there, 

Whenever  they  wish  to  use  it ; 
So,  in  this  world  I  'd  make  for  thee, 
Our  hearts  should  all  like  fire-flies  be, 
And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose  it. 

While  ev'ry  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Hath  still  some  shadow  hov'ring  near, 
In  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear, 

Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted  :  — 
Unless  they  're  like  that  graceful  one, 
Which,  when  thou  'rt  dancing  in  the  sun, 
Still  near  thee,  leaves  a  charm  upon 

Each  spot  where  it  hath  flitted ' 


330 


FORGET   NOT  THE  FIELD. 

Forget  not  the  field  where  they  perish'd, 
The  truest,  the  last  of  the  brave, 

All  gone  —  and  the  bright  hope  we  cherish'd 
Gone  with  them,  and  quench'd  in  their  grave 

Oh  !  could  we  from  death  but  recover 
Those  hearts  as  they  bounded  before, 

In  the  face  of  high  heav'n  to  fight  over        _ 
That  combat  for  freedom  once  more ;  — 

Could  the  chain  for  an  instant  be  riven 
Which  Tyranny  flung  round  us  then, 

No,  't  is  not  in  Man,  nor  in  Heaven, 
To  let  Tyranny  bind  it  again ! 

But 't  is  past  —  and  tho'  blazon'd  in  story 

The  name  of  our  Victor  may  be, 
Accursed  is  the  march  of  that  glory 

Wliich  treads  o'er  the  hearts  of  the  free. 

Far  dearer  the  grave  or  the  prison, 

-  Illumed  by  one  patriot  name, 
Than  the  trophies  of  all,  who  have  risen 
On  LibertyV,  ruins  to  fame. 


331 


IF  THOU'LT  BE  MINE. 

If  tliou  'It  be  mine,  the  treasures  of  air, 
Of  earth,  and  sea,  shall  lie  at  thy  feet ; 

Whatever  in  Fancy's  eye  looks  fair, 

Or  in  Hope's  sweet  music  sounds  most  sweet, 
Shall  be  ours  —  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 

Bright  flowers  shall  bloom  wherever  we  rove, 
A  voice  divine  shall  talk  in  each  stream  ; 

The  stars  shall  look  like  worlds  of  love, 
And  this  earth  be  all  one  beautiful  dream 
In  our  eyes  —  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love ! 

And  thoughts,  whose  source  is  hidden  and  high, 
Like  streams,  that  come  from  heaven-ward  hilla, 

Shall  keep  our  hearts,  like-  meads,  that  lie 
To  be  bathed  by  those  eternal  rills, 
Ever  green,  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love ! 

All  this  and  more  the  Spirit  of  Love 

Can  breathe  o'er  them,  who  feel  his  spells : 

That  heaven,  which  forms  his  home  above, 
He  can  make  on  earth,  wherever  he  dwells, 
As  thou  'It  own,  —  if  thou  wilt  be  nine,  love 


£& 


SAIL  ON,  SAIL  ON. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  thou  fearless  bark  — 

Wherever  blows  the  welcome  wind, 
It  cannot  lead  to  scenes  more  dark, 

More  sad  than  those  we  leave  behind. 
Each  wave  that  passes  seems  to  say, 

"  Though  death  beneath  our  smile  may  be, 
Less  cold  we  are,  less  false  than  they, 

Whose  smiling  wreck'd  thy  hopes  and  thee." 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  —  through  endless  space  — 

Through  calm — through  tempest — stop  no  more  ; 
The  stormiest  sea 's  a  resting-place 

To  him  who  leaves  such  hearts  on  shore. 
Or  —  if  some  desert  land  we  meet, 

Where  never  yet  false-hearted  men 
Profaned  a  world,  that  else  were  sweet,  — 

Then  rest  thee,  bark,  but  not  till  then. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 

rnF.RE  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet , 
Oh !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart 


IRISH    MELODIES  333 

Yet  it  icas  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
T  was  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh  !  no,  —  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were 

near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  ench&ntment  more  dear 
And  avIio  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should 

cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her,  sighing : 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  fraze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking ;  — 

Ah  !  little  they  think  who  delight  in  her  strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking. 


534  IRISH     MELODIES 

He  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  Ins  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him  ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

Oh !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  West, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 


NO,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear, 
When  half-awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  die  full  quire  of  heaven  is  near,  — 
Than  came  that  voice,  when,  all  forsaken, 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain, 
Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  waken 

To  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort !  't  was  like  the  stealing 

Of  summer  wind  thro'  some  wreathed  shell  — 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  all  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell. 
T  was  whisper'd  balm  —  't  was  sunshine  spoken ! 

I  'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain 
To  have  my  lonjr  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 

By  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 


335 


DRINK  TO  HER 

Drink  to  her,  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy 
Oh  !  woman's  heart  was  made 

For  minstrel  hands  alone ; 
By  other  ringers  play'd, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 
Then  here  's  to  her,  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  sorf 

What  gold  could  never  buy 

At  Beauty's  door  of  glass, 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  ask'd  her,  "  which  might  pass  ?  * 

She  answer'd,  "  he,  who  could." 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To  pass  —  but 't  would  not  do : 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought, 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through. 
So  here 's  to  her,  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  or  grandeur  shines, 


Ki6  IRISH   MELODIES. 

Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome, 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold  mines. 
But  oh !  the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere ; 
Its  native  home 's  above, 

Tho'  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her,  who  long 

I  lath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Down  in  the  valley  come  meet  me  to-nignt, 
And  I  '11  tell  you  your  fortune  truly 

As  ever  was  told,  by  the  new-moon's  light, 
To  a  young  maiden,  shining  as  newly 

But,  for  the  world,  let  no  one  be  nigh, 
Lest  haply  the  stars  should  deceive  me^ 

Such  secrets  between  you  and  me  and  the  sky 
Should  never  go  farther,  believe  me. 

If  at  that  hour  the  heav'ns  be  not  dim, 
My  science  shall  call  up  before  you 

A  male  apparition,  the  image  of  him 
Whose  destiny  't  is  to  adore  you 


IRISH    MELODIES.  337 

And  if  to  that  phantom  you  '11  be  kind, 

So  fondly  around  you  he  '11  hover, 
You  '11  hardly,  rny  dear,  any  difference  find 

'Twixt  him  and  a  true  living  lover. 

Down  at  your  feet,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
He'll  kneel,  with  a  warmth  of  devotion — 

An  ardor,  of  which  such  an  innocent  sprite 
You  'd  scarcely  believe  had  a  notion. 

What  other  thoughts  and  events  may  arise, 
As  in  destiny's  book  I  've  not  seen  them, 

Must  only  be  left  to  the  stars  and  your  eyes 
To  settle,  ere  morning,  between  them. 


NATIONAL     AIRS, 


NATIONAL    AIRS. 

A   TEMPLE  TO  FRIENDSHIP 

[SPANISH   AIR.] 

"  A  Temple  to  Friendship,"  said  Laura,  enchanted, 

I  '11  build  in  this  garden,  —  the  thought  is  divine ! " 
Her  temple  was  built,  and  she  now  only  wanted 

An  image  of  Friendship  to  place  on  the  shrine. 
She  flew  to  a  sculptor,  who  set  down  before  her 

A  Friendship,  the  fairest  his  art  could  invent ; 
But  so  cold  and  so  dull,  that  the  youthful  adorer 

Saw  plainly  this  was  not  the  idol  she  meant 

"  Oh '    -ever,"  she  cried,  "  could  I  think  of  enshrining 

An  imago,  whose  looks  are  so  joyless  and  dim ;  — 
But  yon  little  god,  upon  roses  reclining, 

We  '11  make,  if  you  please,  Sir,  a  Friendship  of  him  " 
So  the  bargain  was  struck  ;  with  the  little  god  laden 

She  joyfully  flew  to  her  shrine  in  the  grove  : 
"Farewell,"  said  the  sculptor,  "you're  not  the  first 
maiden 

Who  came  but  for  Friendship  and  took  away  Love." 

29* 


342 


ALL  THAT'S  BRIGHT  MUST  FADE 

[INDIAN  AIR.] 

All  that 's  bright  must  fade,  — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that  s  sweet  Avas  made, 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest 
Stars  that  shine  and  fall ;  — 

The  flower  that  drops  in  springing;  — 
These,  alas  !  are  types  of  all 

To  which  our  hearts  are  clinging. 
All  that 's  bright  must  fade,  — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest ' 

Who  would  seek  or  prize 

Delights  that  end  in  aching  ? 
Who  would  trust  to  ties 

That  every  hour  are  breaking  ? 
Better  far  to  be 

In  utter  darkness  lying, 
Than  to  be  bless'd  with  light  and  see 

That  light  forever  flying. 
All  ttia''  's  bright  must  fade,  — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that 's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest ! 


343 


REASON,  FOLLY     AND  BEAUTY 

[ITALIAN   AIK.l 

Reason,  and  Folly,  and  Beauty,  they  say, 
Went  on  a  party  of  pleasure  one  day: 

Folly  play'd 

Around  the  maid, 
The  bells  of  his  cap  rung  merrily  out ; 

While  Reason  took 

To  his  sermon-book  — 
Oh !  which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt, 
Which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt- 


Beauty,  who  likes  to  be  thought  very  sage, 
Turn'd  for  a  moment  to  Reason's  dull  page, 

Till  Folly  said, 

"  Look  here,  sweet  maid ! "  — 
The  sight  of  his  cap  brought  her  back  to  herself 

While  Reason  read 

His  leaves  of  lead, 
With  no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf! 
No,  —  no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf' 


Then  Reason  grew  jealous  of  Folly's  gay  cap 
Had  he  that  on,  he  her  heart  might  entrap  — 

"  There  it  is," 

Quoth  Folly,  "  old  quiz ! " 


ai4 


NATIONAL    AIRS. 


(Folly  was  always  good-natured,  't  is  said.) 

"  Under  the  sun 

There  's  no  such  fun, 
As  Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head, 
Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head !  " 

But  Reason  the  head-dress  so  awkwardly  wore, 
That  Beauty  now  liked  hini  still  less  than  before 

While  Folly  took 

Old  Reason's  book, 
And  twisted  the  leaves  in  a  cap  of  such  ton. 

That  Beauty  vow'd 

(Though  not  aloud) 
She  liked  him  still  better  in  that  .than  his  own, 
Yes,  —  liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  owa 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

[AIR.  —  THE  BELXS   OF  ST.   I>ETERSBURGH.l 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells ! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells, 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time, 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime. 

Those  joyous  hours  are  pass'd  away; 
And  many  a  heart,  that  then  was  gay, 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 


NATIONAL    ATRS.  345 

And  so  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone ; 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells ! 


THERE  COMES  A  TIME. 

[GERMAN  AIR.J 

There  comes  a  time,  a  dreary  time, 

To  him  whose  heart  hath  flown 
O'er  all  the  fields  of  youth's  sweet  prime, 

And  made  each  flower  its  own. 
'T  is  when  his  soul  must  first  renounce 

Those  dreams  so  bright,  so  fond; 
Oh  !  then 's  the  time  to  die  at  once, 

For  life  has  naught  beyond. 

When  sets  the  sun  on  Afric's  shore, 

That  instant  all  is  night ; 
And  so  should  life  at  once  be  o'er, 

When  Love  withdraws  his  light;  — 
Nor,  like  our  northern  day,  gleam  on 

Through  twilight's  dim  delay, 
The  cold  remains  of  lustre  gone. 

Of  fire  long  pass'd  awav 


LOVE  AND  HOPE. 

[SWISS  AIE.] 

At  norn,  beside  yon  summer  sea, 

Young  Hope  and  Love  reclined ; 
But  scarce  had  noontide  come,  when  he 
Into  his  bark  leap'd  smilingly, 
And  left  poor  Hope  behind. 


"  I  go,"  said  Love,  "  to  sail  awhile 

Across  this  sunny  main ; " 
And  then  so  sweet  his  parting  smile, 
That  Hope,  who  never  dream'd  of  guile, 
Behoved  he  'd  come  again. 


She  linger'd  there  till  evening's  beam 

Along  the  waters  lay  ; 
And  o'er  the  sands,  in  thoughtful  dream, 
Oft  traced  his  name,  which  still  the  stream 

As  often  wash'd  away. 


At  length  a  sail  appears  in  sight, 

And  tow'rds  the  maiden  moves ! 
T  is  Wealth  that  comes,  and  gay  and  bright, 
His  golden  bark  reflects  the  light, 
But  ah !  it  is  not  Love's. 


NATIONAL    AIRS.  34? 

Another  sail  —  't  was  Friendship  showed 

Her  night-lamp  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  calm  the  light  tha^  lamp  bestow'd ; 
But  Love  had  lights  that  warmer  glow'd, 

And  where,  alas  !  was  he  ? 


Now  fast  around  the  sea  and  shore 

Night  threw  her  darkling  chain ; 
The  sunny  sails  were  seen  no  more, 
Hope's  morning  dreams  of  bliss  were  o'er, — 
Love  never  came  again. 


THE  CRYSTAL-HUNTERS. 

[SWISS  AIR.] 

O'er  mountains  bright 

With  snow  and  light, 
We  Crystal-Hunters  speed  along  ; 

While  rocks  and  caves 

And  icy  waves, 
Each  instant  echo  to  our  song ; 
And,  when  we  meet  with  store  of  gems, 
We  grudge  not  kings  their  diadems. 

O'er  mountains  bright 

With  snow  and  light. 


348  NATIONAL    AIRS. 

We  Crystal-Hunters  speed  along ; 

While  grots  and  caves, 

And  icy  waves, 
Each  instant  echo  to  our  song. 

Not  half  so  oft  the  lover  dreams 
Of  sparkles  from  his  lady's  eyes, 

As  we  of  those  refreshing  gleams 
That  tell  where  deep  the  crystal  lies 

Though,  next  to  crystal,  we  too  grant 

That  ladies'  eyes  may  most  enchant. 
O'er  mountains  bright,  &c. 

Sometimes,  when  on  the  Alpine  rose 

The  golden  sunset  leaves  its  ray, 
So  like  a  gem  the  flow'ret  glows, 

We  thither  bend  our  headlong  way ; 
And,  though  we  find  no  treasure  there, 
We  bless  the  rose  that  shines  so  fair. 
O'er  mountains  bright 
With  snow  and  light, 
We  Crystal-Hunters  speed  along; 
While  rocks  and  caves, 
And  icy  waves, 
Each  instant  echo  to  our  song. 


349 


PARE  THEE  WELL,  THOU  LOVELY  ONE! 

[SICILIAN  AIR.J 

Fare  thee  well,  thou  lovely  one ! 

Lovely  still,  but  dear  no  more  ; 
Once  his  soul  of  truth  is  gone, 

Love's  sweet  life  is  o'er. 
Thy  words,  whate'er  their  flatt'ring  spell, 

Could  scarce  have  thus  deceived ; 
But  eyes  that  acted  truth  so  well 

Were  sure  to  be  believed. 
Then,  fare  thee  well,  thou  lovely  one . 

Lovely  still,  but  dear  no  more  ; 
Once  his  soul  of  truth  is  gone, 

Love's  sweet  life  is  o'er. 

Yet  those  eyes  look  constant  still, 

True  as  stars  they  keep  their  light ; 
Still  those  cheeks  their  pledge  fukU 

Of  blushing  always  bright, 
'T  is  only  on  thy  changeful  heart 

The  blame  of  falsehood  lies ; 
Love  lives  in  every  other  part, 

But  there,  alas !  he  dies. 
Then,  fare  thee  well,  thou  lovely  one ! 

Lovely  still,  but  dear  no  more ; 
Once  his  soul  of  truth  is  gone, 

Love's  sweet  life  is  o'er 

30 


350 


GAYLY  SOUNDS  THE  CASTANET 

9 

[MALTESE  AIB.J 

Gatlt  sounds  the  Castanet, 

Beating  time  to  bounding'  feet, 
When,  after  daylight's  golden  set, 

Maids  and  youths  by  moonlight  meet 
Oh,  then,  how  sweet  to  move 

Through  all  that  maze  of  mirth, 
Led  by  light  from  eyes  we  love 

Beyond  all  eyes  on  earth. 

Then,  the  joyous  banquet  spread 

On  the  cool  and  fragrant  ground, 
With  heav'n's  bright  sparklers  overhead, 

And  still  brighter  sparkling  round. 
Oh,  then,  how  sweet  to  say 

Into  some  loved  one's  ear, 
Thoughts  reserved  through  many  a  day 

To  be  thus  whisper'd  here. 

When  the  dance  and  feast  are  dona. 

Arm  in  arm  as  home  we  stray, 
How  sweet  to  see  the  dawning  sun 

O'er  her  cheek's  warm  blushes  play ! 
Then,  too,  the  farewell  kiss  — 

The  words,  whose  parting  tone 
Lingers  still  in  dreams  of  bliss, 

That  haunt  young  hearts  alone. 


351 


OFJ\  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 

[scotch  air.] 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  hath  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather 
I  feel  like  one, 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted. 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garland  's  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 


552  NATIONAL    AIES 

Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me 


PEACE  BE  AROUND  THEE. 

[scotch  Air.] 

Peace  be  around  thee,  wherever  thou  rovest ; 

May  life  be  for  thee  one  summer's  day, 
And  all  that  thou  wishest.  and  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Come  smiling  around  thy  sunny  way ! 
If  sorrow  e'er  this  calm  should  break, 

May  even  thy  tears  pass  off  so  lightly, 
Like  spring-showers,  they  '11  only  make 

The  smiles  that  follow  shine  more  brightly. 

May  Time,  who  sheds  his  blight  o'er  all, 

And  daily  dooms  some  joy  to  death, 
O'er  thee  let  years  so  gently  fall, 

They  shall  not  crush  one  flower  beneath. 
As  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun 

This  world  along  its  path  advances, 
May  that  side  the  sun 's  upon 

Be  all  that  e'er  shall  meet  thv  dances ' 


353 


ROW   GENTLY  HERE. 

[VENETIAN   AIE.l 

Row  gently  here, 
My  gondolier, 
So  softly  wake  the  tide, 
That  not  an  car 
On  earth  may  hear, 
But  hers  to  whom  we  glide. 
Had  Heaven  but  tongues  to  speak,  as  wefl 

As  starry  eyes  to  see, 
Oh,  think  what  tales  \  would  have  to  tell 
Of  wandering  youths  like  me ' 

.  rest  thee  here, 

Hush,  hush,  for  up  I  go, 
To  •  light 

Bal  '  ;ht, 

h  below. 

Ah!    ' 

Take,  tan's  love, 

\y  lould  be ' 

30* 


354 


MY  HARP   HAS  ONE  UNCHANGING 
THEME, 

[SWEDISH  AIK.] 

Mr  harp  has  one  unchanging  theme, 

One  strain  that  still  comes  o'er 
Its  languid  chord,  as  't  were  a  dream 

Of  joy  that 's  now  no  more. 
In  vain  I  try,  with  livelier  air, 

To  wake  the  breathing  string ; 
That  voice  of  other  times  is  there, 

And  saddens  all  I  sing. 

Breathe  on,  breathe  on,  thou  languid  strain^ 

Henceforth  be  all  my  own ; 
Though  thou  art  oft  so  full  of  pain 

Few  hearts  can  bear  thy  tone. 
Yet  oft  thou  'rt  sweet,  as  if  the  sigh, 

The  breath  that  Pleasure's  wings 
Gave  out,  when  last  thev  wanton'd  by 

Were  still  upon  thy  strings, 


COME,  CHASE  THAT   STARTING  1  EAR 

AWAY. 

[FfiEXCH  Alfi.J 

Come,  chase  that  starting  tear  away, 

Ere  mine  to  meet  it  springs  ; 
To-night,  at  least,  to-night  be  gay, 

Whate'er  to-morrow  brings. 
Like  sunset  gleams,  that  linger  late 

When  all  is  dark'ning  fast, 
Are  hours  like  these  we  snatch  from  Fate  — 

The  brightest,  and  the  last. 

Then,  chase  that  starting  tear,  &c. 

To  gild  the  deep'ning  gloom,  if  Heaven 

But  one  bright  hour  allow, 
Oh,  think  that  one  bright  hour  is  given, 

In  all  its  splendor,  now. 
Let 's  live  it  out  —  then  sink  in  night, 

Like  waves  that  from  the  shore 
One  minute  swell,  are  touch'd  with  light, 

Then  lost  for  evermore  ! 
Come,  chase  that  starting  tear,  &c 


356 


WHO'LL  BUY  MY  LOVE-KNOTS' 

[PORTUGUESE  AIE.] 

Hyme.n,  late  his  love-knots  selling, 
Call'd  at  many  a  maiden's  dwelling, 
None  could  doubt,  who  saw  or  knew  them, 
Hymen's  call  was  welcome  to  them. 

"  Who  '11  buy  my  love-knots  ? 

Who  '11  buy  my  love-knots  ?  " 
Soon  as  that  sweet  cry  resounded, 
How  his  baskets  were  surrounded ! 

Maids,  who  now  first  dream'd  of  trying 
These  gay  knots  of  Hymen's  tying ; 
Dames,  who  long  had  sat  to  watch  lain 
Passing  by,  but  ne'er  could  catch  him ; 

"  Who  '11  buy  my  love-knots  ? 

Who  '11  buy  my  love-knots  ?  "- 
All  at  that  sweet  cry  assembled  ; 
Some  laugh'd,  some  blush'd,  and  some  tremblsd. 

u  Here  are  knots,"  said  Hymen,  t 
So'-ie  loo  making 

Here  are  gold  ones  —  yoi  i  'em  "  — 

(These,  of  course,  found  ready  custom,) 

"  Come,  buy  my  love-knots  ! 

Come,  buy  my  love-Is 
Some  are  labell'd  '  Knots  to  tie  men  — 
Love  the  maker  —  Bought  of  Hymen.' " 


NATIONAL    AIRS.  357 

Scarce  their  bargains  were  completed. 
When  the  nymphs  all  cried,  "  We  're  cheated ! 
See  these  flowers  — they're  drooping  sadly; 
This  gold-knot,  too,  ties  but  badly  — 

Who'd  buy  such  love-knots  ? 

Who'd  buy  sucli  love-knots  ? 
Even  tins  tie,  with  Love's  name  round  it  - 
All  a  sham  —  lie  never  bound-it" 

Love,  who  saw  the  whole  proceeding, 
Would  have  laugh'd,  but  for  good-breeding; 
While  Old  Hymen,  who  was  used  to 
Cries  like  that  these  dames  gave  loose  to  — 

"  Take  back  our  love-knots ! 

Take  ba^k  our  love-knots  !  " 
Coolly  said,"'" There's  no  returning 
Wares  on  Hymen's  hands  —  Good  morning ! " 


BRIGHT  BE  THY  DREAMS. 

[welsh  air] 

Br.gut  be  thy  dreams  —  may  all  thy  weeping 
Turn  into  smiles  wliile  thou  art  sleeping. 
May  those  by  deatli  or  seas  removed, 
The  friends,  who  in  thy  spring-time  knew  thee. 

All,  thou  hast  ever  prized  or  loved, 
m  dreams  come  smiling  to  thee ' 


358  NATIONAL   AIRS. 

There  may  the  child,  whose  love  lay  deepest, 
Dearest  of  all,  come  while  thou  sleepest; 
Still  as  she  was  —  no  charm  forgot  — 
No  lustre  lost  that  life  had  given ; 

Or,  if  changed,  but  changed  to  what 
Thou  'It  find  her  yet  in  Heaven ! 


LIKE   ONE  WHO,   DOOM'D. 

Like  one  who,  doom'd  o'er  distant  seas, 

His  weary  path  to  measure, 
When  home  at  length,  with  fav'ring  breeze, 

He  brings  the  far-sought  treasure  ; 

His  ship,  in  sight  of  shore,  goes  down, 

shore  to  which  he  hasted ; 
And  all  the  wealth  he  thought  his  own 
Is  o'er  the  waters  wasted. 

Like  him,  this  heart,  thro'  many  a  track 

Of  toil  and  sorrow  straying, 
One  hope  alone  brought  fondly  back, 

Its  toil  and  grief  repaying. 

Like  him,  alas,  I  see  that  ray 

Of  hope  before  me  perish, 
And  one  dark  minute  sweep  away 

What  years  were  given  to  che-ish. 


THOUGH  'TIS  ALL  BUT  A  DREAM, 

[FRENCH  AIR.] 

Though  't  is  all  but  a  dream  at  the  best, 
And  still,  -when  happiest,  soonest  o'er, 
Yet,  even  in  a  dream,  to  be  bless'd 
Is  so  sweet,  that  I  ask  for  no  mora 
The  bosom  that  opes 
With  earliest  hopes, 
The  soonest  finds  those  hopes  untrue ; 
As  flowers  that  first 
In  spring-time  burst 
The  earliest  wither  too ! 

.  Ay  — 't  is  all  but  a  dream,  &c. 

Though  by  Friendship  we  oft  are  deceived. 

And  find  Love's  sunshine  soon  o'ercast, 
Yet  Friendship  will  still  be  believed, 
And  Love  trusted  on  to  the  last 

The  web  'mong  the  leaves 

The  spider  weaves 
Is  like  the  charm  Hope  hangs  o'er  men 

Though  often  she  sees 

'T  is  broke  by  the  breeze, 
She  spins  the  bright  tissue  again. 

Ay  —  't  is  all  but  a  dream,  &c 


360 


JOYS  OF  YOUTH,  NOW  FLEETING! 

[PORTUGUESE  AIR.] 

Whisf'ri>gs,  heard  by  wakeful  maids, 

To  whom  the  night-stars  guide  us ; 
Stolen  walks  through  moonlight  shades 
With  those  we  love  beside  us, 
Hearts  beating, 
At  meeting ; 
Tears  starting, 
At  parting ; 
Oh,  sweet  youth,  how  soon  it  fades ! 
Sweet  joys  of  youth,  how  fleeting ! 

Wand'rings  far  away  from  home, 

With  life  all  new  before  us ; 
Greetings  warm,  when  home  we  come, 

From  hearts  whose  prayers  watch' d  o'er  ub. 
Tears  starting, 
At  parting ; 
Hearts  beating, 
At  meeting ; 
Oh,  sweet  youth,  how  lost  on  some ! 
To  some,  how  bright  and  fleeting ! 


3G1 


LOVE  IS  A  HUNTER-BOY, 

[langvedociajt  aib.] 

Love  is  a  hunter-boy, 

Who  makes  young  hearts  Mb  prey 
And,  in  his  nets  of  joy, 

Ensnares  them  night  and  day. 
In  vain  conceal'd  they  lie  — 

Love  tracks  them  everywhere ; 
In  vain  aloft  they  fly  — 

Love  shoots  them  flying  there. 

But 't  is  his  joy  most  sweet, 

At  early  dawn  to  trace 
The  print  of  Beauty's  feet, 

And  give  the  trembler  chasa 
And  if,  through  virgin  snow, 

He  tracks  her  footsteps  fair, 
How  sweet  for  Love  to  know 

None  went  before  him  there. 
si 


FLOW  ON,  THOU  SHINING  RIVER. 

[PORTUOT7E8E  AIB.J 

Flow  on,  thou  shining1  river : 

But,  ere  thou  reach  the  sea, 
Seek  Ella's  bower,  and  give  her 

The  wreaths  I  fling  o'er  thee. 
And  tell  her  thus,  if  she  '11  be  mine 

The  current  of  our  lives  shall  be, 
With  joys  along  their  course  to  shine, 

Like  those  sweet  flowers  on  thee. 

But  if,  in  wand'ring  thither, 

Thou  find'st  she  mocks  my  prayer, 
Then  leave  those  wreaths  to  wither 

Upon  the  cold  bank  there ; 
And  tell  her  thus,  when  youth  is  o'er, 

Her  lone  and  loveless  charms  shall  be 
Thrown  by  upon  life's  weedy  shore, 

Like  those  sweet  flowers  from  thee. 


GO.  THEN  — T  IS  VAIK 

[SICILIAN  AIB.J 

Go,  tnen  —  *t  is  vain  to  Mover 

Thus  round  a  hope  that 's  dead ; 
At  length  my  dream  is  over ; 

'T  wa3  sweet  —  't  was  false  —  \  is  fled ! 
Farewell !  since  naught  it  moves  thee, 

Such  truth  as  mine  to  see  — 
Some  one,  who  far  less  love3  thee,      ' 

Perhaps  more  bless'd  will  be. 

Farewell,  sweet  eyes,  whose  brightness 

New  life  around  me  shed ; 
Farewell,  false  heart,  whose  lightness 

Now  leaves  me  death  instead. 
Go,  now,  those  channs  surrender 

To  some  new  lover's  sigh  — 
One  who,  though  far  less  tender 

May  be  more  bless'd  than  I. 


364 


WHERE  SHALL  WE  BUR?  OUR  SHAME 

[NEAPOLITAN  AIB.] 

Where  shall  we  bury  our  shame? 

Where,  in  what  desolate  place, 
Hide  the  last  wreck  of  a  ramo 

Broken  and  stain'd  by  disgrace  ? 
Death  may  dissever  the  chain, 

Oppression  will  cease  when  we  're  gone 
But  the  dishonor,  the  stain, 

Die  as  we  may,  will  live  on. 

Was  it  for  this  we  sent  out 

Liberty's  cry  from  our  shore  ? 
Was  it  for  this  that  her  shout 

Thrill'd  to  the  world's  very  core? 
Thus  to  live  cowards  and  slaves!  — 

Oh,  ye  free  hearts  that  lie  dead, 
Do  you  not.  ev'n  in  your  graves, 

Shudder,  as  o'er  ycu  we  tread  ? 


365 


TAKE  HENCE  THE  BOWL. 

[NEAPOLITAN   AIll.j 

Take  hence  the  bowl ; — though  beaming 

Brightly  as  bowl  e'er  shone, 
Oh,  it  but  sets  me  dreaming 

Of  happy  days  now  gone. 
There,  in  its  clear  reflection, 

As  in  a  wizard's  glass, 
Lost  hopes  and  dead  affection, 

Like  shades,  before  me  pass. 

Each  cup  I  drain  brings  hither 

Some  scenes  of  bliss  gone  by ;  — 
Bright  lips,  too  bright  to  wither, 

Warm  hearts,  too  warm  to  die. 
Till,  as  the  dream  comes  o'er  me 

Of  those  long-vanish'd  years, 
Alas,  the  wine  before  me 

Seems  turning  all  to  tears ! 
31* 


366 


hark;  the  vesper  hymn  is  stealing 

TSUSSIAN  AIK.] 

Hark  !  the  vesper  hymn  is  stealing 

O'er  the  waters  soft  and  clear ; 
Nearer  yet  and  nearer  pealing1, 
And  now  bursts  upon  the  ear: 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Farther  now,  now  farther  stealing, 
Soft  it  fades  upon  the  ear : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 

Now,  like  moonlight  waves  retreating 

To  the  shore,  it  dies  along ; 
Now,  like  angry  surges  meeting 
Breaks  the  mingled  tide  of  sorig: 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Hush!  again,  like  waves,  retreating 
To  the  shore,  it  dies  along . 
Jubilate,  Amen. 


307 


WHEN  THROUGH  THE  PIAZETTA. 

[VENETIAN  AIB.] 

When  through  the  Piazetta 

Night  hreathos  her  cool  air. 
Then,  dearest  Ninetta, 

I  '11  come  to  thee  there. 
Beneath  thy  mask  shrouded, 

I  '11  know  thee  afar, 
A3  Love  knows,  though  clouded, 

His  own  Evening  Si 

In  garb,  then,  resembling 

Some  gay  gondolier, 
I  '11  whisper  thee,  trembling, 

«  Our  bark,  love  is  near ; 
Now,  now,  while  there  hover 

Those  clouds  o'er  the  moon, 
T  will  waft  thee  safe  over 

Yon  silent  Lagoon." 


368 


WHEN  ABROAD  IN  THE  WORLD. 

When  abroad  in  the  world  thou  appearest, 
And  the  young  and  the  lovely  are  there, 
To  my  heart  while  of  all  thou  'rt  the  dearest, 
To  my  eyea  thou  'rt  of  all  the  most  fair. 
They  pass  one  by  one, 

Like  waves  of  the  sea, 
That  say  to  the  Sun, 

"  See,  how  fair  we  can  be." 
But  where  's  the  light  like  thine, 
In  sun  or  shade  to  shine  ? 
No  —  no,  'mong  them  all,  there  is  nothing  like  thee, 
Nothing  like  thee. 

Oft,  of  old,  without  farewell  or  warning, 

Beauty's  self  used  to  steal  from  the  skies ; 
Fling  a  mist  round  her  head,  some  fine  morning, 
And  post  down  to  earth  in  disguise ; 
But,  no  matter  what  shroud 

Around  her  might  be, 
Men  pcep'd  through  the  cloud, 
And  whisper  d  "  'T  is  She." 
So  thou,  where  thousands  are, 
Shin'st  forth  the  only  star  — 
Yes,  yes,  'mong  them  all,  there  is  nothing  like  hee, 
Nothing  like  thee. 


369 


WHEN  LOVE  IS  KIND 

When  Love  is  kind, 
Cheerful  and  free, 

Love 's  sure  to  find 
Welcome  from  me. 

But  when  Love  bringa 
Heartache  or  pang, 

Tears,  and  such  things  — 
Love  may  go  hang ' 

If  Love  can  sigh 

For  one  alone 
Well  pleased  am  I 

To  be  that  one. 

But  should  I  see 
Love  giv'n  to  rove 

To  two  or  three, 

Then  —  good-by,  Lore 

Love  must,  in  short, 
Keep  fond  and  true. 

Through  good  report, 
And  evil  too. 

Else,  here  I  swear, 
Young  Love  may  go, 

For  aught  I  care  — 
To  Jericho. 


370 


KEEP  THOSE   EYES   STILL   PURELY  MINE 

Keep  those  eyes  still  purely  mine 

Though  far  off  I  be : 
When  on  others  most  they  shine, 

Then  think  they  're  turn'd  on  me. 

Should  those  lips  as  now  respond 

To  sweet  minstrelsy, 
When  their  accents  seem  most  fond, 

Then  think  they  're  breathed  for  me, 

Make  what  hearts  thou  wilt  thy  own, 

If  when  all  on  thee 
Fix  their  charmed  thoughts  alone, 

Thou  think'st  the  wliile  on  me. 


HEAR  ME  BUT  ONCE. 
[fuexch  aib.] 

Hear  me  but  once,  while  o'er  the  grave, 
In  which  our  Love  lies  cold  and  dead, 

1  count  each  flatt'ring  hope  he  gave 
Of  joys,  now  lost,  and  charms  now  fled. 


NATIONAL    AIRS. 


371 


Who  could  have  thought  the  smile  he  wore^ 
When  first  we  met,  would  fade  away  ? 

Or  that  a  chill  would  e'er  come  o'er 

Tho3e  eyes  so  bright  through  many  a  day  ? 
Hear  me  but  onco,  &c. 


THOU  LOV'ST  NO  MORE. 

Tjo  plain,  alas,  my  dot-m  is  spoken, 
Nor  canst  thou  veil  the  sad  truth  o'er , 

Thy  heart  is  changed,  thy  vow  is  broken, 
Thou  lov'st  no  more— -thou  lov'st  no  more. 

Though  kindly  still  those  eyes  behold  me, 
The  smile  is  gone,  which  once  they  wore ; 

Though  fondly  still  those  arms  enfold  me, 
T  is  not  the  same  —  thou  lov'st  no  more 

Too  long  my  dream  of  bliss  believing, 
I  've  thought  thee  all  thou  wert  before ; 

But  now  —  alas  !  there 's  no  deceiving, 
T  is  all  too  plain,  thou  lov'st  no  more. 

Oh,  thou  as  soon  the  dead  couldst  waken, 

As  lost  affection's  life  restore, 
Give  peace  to  her  that  is  forsaken, 

Or  brino-  back  him  who  loves  no  more. 


372 


HERE  SLEEPS  THE  BARD. 

[HIGHLAND  AIR.  J 

Here  sleeps  the  Bard  who  knew  so  well 
All  the  sweet  windings  of  Apollo  s  snell 
Whether  its  music  roll'd  like  torrents  near, 
Or  died,  like  distant  streamlets,  on  the  ear. 
Sleep,  sleep,  mute  bard  ;  alike  unheeded  now 
The  storm  and  zephyr  sweep  thy  lifeless  brow ;  - 
That  storm,  whose  rush  is  like  thy  martial  lay ; 
That  breeze  wliich,  like  thy  love-song,  dies  away  ! 


DO  NOT  SAY  THAT  LIFE  IS  WANING. 

Do  not  say  that  life  is  waning, 
Or  that  Hope's  sweet  day  is  set ; 

While  I  've  thee  and  love  remaining, 
Life  is  in  th'  horizon  yet. 

Do  not  think  those  charms  are  flying, 
Though  thy  roses  fade  and  fall ; 

Beauty  hath  a  grace  undying, 
Which  in  thee  survives  them  all. 


NATIOSAIj    AIKS.  373 

Not  for  charms,  the  newest,  brightest, 
That  on  other  cheeks  may  shine, 

Would  I  change  the  least,  the  slightest, 
That  is  ling'ring  now  o'er  thine. 


II    IN  LOVING,  SINGING. 

If  in  loving,  singing,  night  and  day 
We  could  trifle  merrily  life  away, 
Like  atoms  dancing  in  the  beam, 
Like  day-flies  skimming  o'er  the  stream, 
Or  summer  blossoms,  born  to  sigh 
Their  sweetness  out,  and  die  — 
How  brilliant,  thoughtless,  side  by  side, 
Thou  and  I  could  make  our  minutes  glide ! 
No  atoms  ever  glanced  so  bright, 
No  day-flies  ever  danced  so  light, 
Nor  summer  blossoms  mix'd  their  sigh, 
So  close,  as  thou  and  I ! 
33 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


LINES 

■WRITTEN    ON   LEAVING   FHILADEI J  HIA. 

Algne  by  the  Schuylkill  a  wanderer  roved, 
And  bright  were  its  flowery  banks  to  his  eye ; 

But  far,  very  far,  were  the  friends  that  he  loved, 
And  he  gazed  on  its  flowery  banks  with  a  sigh. 

Oh  Nature,  though  blessed  and  bright  are  thy  rays, 
O'er  the  brow  of  creation  enchantingly  thrown, 

Yet  faint  are  they  all  to  the  lustre  that  plays 
In  a  smile  from  the  heart  that  is  fondly  our  own. 

Nor  long  did  the  soul  of  the  stranger  remain 

Unbless'd  by  the  smile  he  had  languish'd  to  meet ; 

Though  scarce  did  he  hope  it  would  sooth  him  again, 
Till  the  threshold  of  home  had  been  press'd  by  his  feet. 

But  the  lays  of  his  boyhood  had  stol'n  to  their  ear, 
And  they  loved  what  they  knew  of  so  humble  a  name ; 

And  they  told  him,  with  flattery  welcome  and  dear, 
That  they  found  in  hi  3  heart  something  better  than 
fame. 

32* 


378  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Nor  did  woman — oh  woman !  whose  form  and  whose  aouJ 
Are  the  spell  and  the  light  of  each  path  we  pursue ; 

Whether  sunn'd  in  the  tropics  or  chill'd  at  the  pole. 
If  woman  be  there,  there  is  happiness  too :  — 

Nor  did  she  her  enamoring  magi.;  deny,  — 

That  magic  his  heart  had  relinquish'd  so  long,  — 

Like  eyes  he  had  loved  was  her  eloquent  eye, 
Like  them  did  it  soften  and  weep  at  his  song. 

Oh,  bless'd  be  the  tear,  and  in  memory  oft 
May  its  sparkle  be  shed  o'er  the  wanderer's  dream , 

Three  bless'd  be  that  eye,  and  may  passion  as  soft, 
As  free  from  a  pang,  ever  mellow  its  beam ! 

The  stranger  is  gone  —  but  he  will  not  forget, 

When  at  home  he  shall  talk  of  the  toils  he  has  known, 

To  tell,  with  a  sigh,  what  endearments  he  met, 
As  he  stray'd  by  the  wave  of  the  Schuylkill  alone 


A   CANADIAN  BOAT  SONG. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We  '11  sing  at  St,  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight 's  past 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  371* 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  breathe  the  blue  wave  to  curl ; 
But,  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore, 
Oh  !  sweetly  Ave  '11  rest  our  weary  oar, 
Blow,  oreezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past 

U  tawas'  tide !  the  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle !  hear  our  prayers, 
Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favorng  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  mm  fast, 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight 's  paat 


TO  THE  FIRE-FLY. 

At  morning,  when  the  earth  and  sky 
Are  glowing  with  the  light  of  spring, 

We  see  thee  not,  thou  humble  fly  ! 
Nor  think  upon  thy  gleaming  wing. 

But  when  the  skies  have  lost  their  hue, 
And  sunny  lights  no  longer  play, 

Oil  then  we  see  and  bless  thee  too 
For  sparkling  o'er  the  dreary  way. 

Thus  let  my  hope,  when  lost  to  ine 
The  lights  that  now  my  life  illume, 

Some  milder  joys  may  come,  like  thee, 
To  cheer,  if  not  to  wnrm,  the  gloom! 


380 


THE  STEERSMAN'S  SONG. 

When  freshly  blows  the  northern  gale, 

And  under  courses  snug  we  fly ; 
Or  when  light  breezes  swell  the  sail. 

And  royals  proudly  sweep  the  sky ; 
'Longside  the  wheel,  unwearied  still 

I  stand,  and,  as  my  watchful  eye 
Doth  mark  the  needle's  faithful  thrill, 

I  think  of  her  I  love,  and  cry, 

Port,  my  boy!  port. 

When  calms  delay,  or  breezes  blow 

Right  from  the  point  we  wish  to  steer ; 
When  by  the  wind  close-haul'd  we  go, 

And  strive  in  vain  the  port  to  near ; 
1  think  't  is  thus  the  fates  defer 

My  bliss  with  one  that 's  far  away, 
And  while  remembrance  springs  to  her, 

I  watch  the  sails  and  sighing  say, 

Thus,  my  boy !  thus. 

But  see,  the  wind  draws  kindly  aft, 

All  hands  are  up  the  yards  to  square, 
And  now  the  floating  stu'n-sails  waft 

Our  stately  ship  through  waves  and  air. 
Oh  !  then  I  think  that  yet  for  me 

Some  breeze  of  fortune  thus  may  spring, 
Some  breeze  to  waft  me,  love,  to  thee  — 

And  in  that  hope  I  smiling  sing, 

Steady,  bo" !  so. 


381 


WRITTEN  ON  PASSING  DE ADMAN'S  ISLAND 

See  you,  beneath  yon  cloud  so  dark, 

Fast  gliding  along  a  gloomy  bark  ? 

Her  sails  are  full,  —  though  the  wind  is  still, 

And  there  blows  not  a  breath  her  sails  to  fill ! 

Say  what  doth  that  vessel  of  darkness  bear  ? 
The  silent  calm  of  the  grave  is  there, 
Save  now  and  again  a  death-knell  rung, 
And  the  flap  of  the  sails  with  night-fog  hung. 

There  lieth  a  wreck  on  the  dismal  shore 
Of  cold  and  pitiless  Labrador ; 
Where,  under  the  moon,  upon  mounts  of  ftost, 
Full  many  a  mariner's  bones  are  toss'd. 

Yon  shadowy  bark  hath  been  to  that  wreck, 
And  the  dim  blue  fire,  that  lights  her  deck, 
Doth  play  on  as  pale  aud  livid  a  crew 
As  ever  yet  drank  the  churchyard  dew. 

To  Deadraan's  Isle,  in  the  eye  of  the  blast, 
To  Deadman's  Isle,  she  speeds  her  fast ; 
By  skeleton  shapes  her  sails  are  furl'd, 
And  the  hand  that  steers  is  not  of  this  world ! 

Oh  !  hurry  thee  on  —  oh  !  hurry  thee  on, 
Thou  terrible  bark,  ere  the  night  be  gone, 
Nor  let  morning  look  on  so  foul  a  sight 
As  would  blanch  for  ever  her  rosy  light ! 


THE  TORCH  OF  LIBERTY 

I  saw  it  all  in  Fancy's  glass  — 
Herself,  the  fair,  the  wild  magician, 

Who  bids  this  splendid  day-dream  pasg, 
And  named  each  gliding  apparition. 

'T  was  like  a  torch-race  —  such  as  they 
Of  Greece  perform'd,  in  ages  gone, 

When  the  fleet  youths,  in  long  array, 
Pass'd  the  bright  torch  triumphant  on. 

I  saw  th'  expectant  nations  stand, 

To  catch  the  coming  flame  in  turn ;  — 

I  saw,  from  ready  hand  to  hand, 

The  clear,  though  struggling,  glory  burn. 

And,  ch,  their  joy,  as  it  came  near, 
'T  was,  in  itself,  a  joy  to  see ;  — 

While  Fancy  whisper'd  in  my  ear, 
"  That  torch  they  pass  is  Liberty  !  " 

And  each,  as  she  received  the  flame, 
Lighted  her  altar  with  its  ray ; 

Then,  smiling,  to  the  next  who  came, 
Speeded  it  on  its  sparkling  way. 

From  Albion  first,  whose  ancient  shrine 
Was  furnish'd  with  the  fire  already, 

Columbia  caught  the  boon  divine, 
And  lit  a  flame,  like"  Albion's,  steady 


MISCELLAN-EOCS    POEM3.  383 

The  splendid  gift  then  Gallia  took, 
And.  like  a  wild  Bacchante,  raising 

The  brand  aloft,  its  sparkles  shook, 
As  she  would  set  the  world  a-blazing  1 

Thus  kindling  wild,  so  fierce  and  high 

Her  altar  blazed  into  the  air, 
That  Albion,  to  that  fire  too  nigh, 

Shrunk  back,  and  shudder'd  at  its  glare ! 

Next,  Spain,  so  new  was  light  to  her, 
Leap'd  at  the  torch  —  but,  ere  the  spark 

That  fell  upon  her  shrine  could  stir, 

T  was  quench'd  —  and  all  again  was  dark. 

Yet,  no  —  not  quench'd  —  a  treasure,  worth 

So  much  to  mortals,  rarely  dies  : 
Again  her  living  light  look'd  forth, 

And  shone,  a  beacon,  in  all  eyes. 

Who  next  received  the  flame  ?  alas, 
Unworthy  Naples  —  shame  of  shames, 

That  ever  through  such  hands  should  pass 
That  brightest  of  all  earthly  flames ! 

Scarce  had  her  fingers  touch'd  the  torch, 
When,  frighted  by  the  sparks  it  shed. 

Nor  waiting  even  to  feel  the  scorch, 
She  dropp'd  it  to  the  earth  —  and  fled. 

And  fall'n  it  might  have  long  remain'd : 
But  Greece,  who  saw  her  moment  now, 

Caught  up  the  prize,  though  prostrate,  stain'd, 
And  waved  it  round  her  beauteous  "brow 


384  MISCELLANEOU      POEMS. 

And  Fancy  bade  me  mark  where,  o'er 
Her  altar,  as  its  flame  ascended, 

Fair,  laurell'd  spirits  seem'd  to  soar, 

Who  thus  in  song  their  voices  blended :  • 

"  Shine,  shine  for  ever,  glorious  Flame, 
Divinest  gift  of  Gods  to  men ! 

From  Greece  thy  earliest  splendor  came, 
To  Greece  thy  ray  returns  again. 

"  Take,  Freedom,  take  thy  radiant  round, 
When  dimm'd,  revive,  when  lost,  return, 

Till  not  a  shrine  through  earth  be  found, 
On  which  thy  glories  shall  not  burn ! " 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  A  FLEETING  SHOW 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given ; 
The  smiles  of  Joy,  the  tears  of  Woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow  — 

There  's  nothing  true,  but  Heaven ! 

And  false  the  light  on  Glory's  plume, 

As  fading  hues  of  Even ; 
And  Love  and  Hope,  and  Beauty's  bloom, 
Are  blossoms  gather'd  for  the  tomb  — 

There 's  nothing  bright,  but  Heaven . 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  385 

Poor  wand'rers  of  a  stormy  day  ! 

From  wave  to  -wave  we  're  driven, 
And  Fancy's  flash,  and  Reason's  ray, 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way  — 

There 's  nothing  calm,  but  Heaven ! 


OH,  TEACH  ME  TO  LOVE  THEE. 

Oh,  teach  me  to  love  Thee,  to  feel  what  thou  art, 
Till,  filPd  with  the  one  sacred  image,  my  heart 

Shall  all  other  passions  disown ; 
Like  some  pure  temple,  that  shines  apart, 

Reserved  for  Thy  worship  alone. 

In  joy  and  in  sorrow,  through  praise  and  through  blame, 
Thud  still  let  me,  living  and  dying  the  same, 

In  Thy  service  bloom  and  decay  — 
Like  some  lone  altar,  whose  votive  flame 

In  holiness  wasteth  away. 

Though  born  in  this  desert,  and  doom'd  by  my  birth 
To  pain  and  affliction,  to  darkness  and  dearth, 

On  Thee  let  my  spirit  rely  — 
Like  some  rude  dial,  that,  fix'd  on  earth, 

Still  looks  for  its  light  from  the  skv 

33 


380 


WEEP   HOT  FOR  THOSE. 

Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 

In  life's  happy  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 
Ere  sin  threw  a  blight  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 

Or  earth  had  profaned  what  was  born  for  the  skies. 
Death  chill'd  the  fair  fountain,  ere  sorrow  had  stain'd  it 

'T  was  frozen  in  all  the  pure  light  of  its  course, 
And  but  sleeps  till  the  sunshine  of  Heaven  has  un> 
chain'd  it, 

To  water  that  Eden  where  first  was  its  source. 
Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 

In  life's  happy  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 
Ere  sin  threw  a  blight  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 

Or  earth  had  profaned  what  was  born  for  the  sides. 

Mourn  not  for  her,  the  young  Bride  of  the  Vale, 

Our  gayest  and  loveliest,  lost  to  us  now, 
Ere  life's  early  lustre  had  tune  to  grow  pale, 

And  the  garland  of  Love  was  yet  fresh  on  her  brow. 
Oh,  then  was  her  moment,  dear  spirit  for  flying 

From    this    gloomy   world,   while    its    gloom   waa 
unknown  — 
And  the  wild  hymns  she  warbled  so  sweetly,  in  dying, 

Were  echoed  in  Heaven  by  lips  like  her  own. 
Weep  not  for  her  —  in  her  spring-time  she  flew 

To  that  land  where  the  wings  of  the  soul  are  unfurl'd 
And  now,  like  a  star  beyond  evening's  cold  dew, 

L»X)ks  radiantly  down  on  the  tears  of  this  world. 


387 


A  BALLAD. 

THE  LAKE  OP  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

u  They  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true  ; 
And  she 's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  fire-fly  lamp, 

She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 


"And  her  fire-fly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear  ; 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I  '11  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress  tree, 
When  the  footstep  of  death  is  near." 


Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds  - 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen,  where  the  serpent  feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before. 


And,  when  on  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
lie  lay,  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear,  and  nightly  steep 
The  flesh  with  blistering  dew  ! 


d£8  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirr'd  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
u  Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?  " 

He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  play'd  — 
"  Welcome,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  one's  light ! " 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed,  for  many  a  night, 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid. 

Till  he  hollow'd  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 

Which  carried  him  off  from  shore  ; 
Far,  far  he  follow'd  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  t'arkj 
And  the  boat  return'd  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp, 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  fire-fly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe  ' 


SONG   OF  THE  EVIL  SPIRIT   01    THE 
WOODS. 

Now  the  vapor,  hot  and  damp, 
Shed  by  day's  expiring  lamp, 
Through  the  misty  ether  spreads 
Every  ill  the  white  man  dreads  ; 
Fiery  fever's  thirsty  thrill, 
Fitful  ague's  shivering  chill ! 

Hark  !  I  hear  the  traveller's  song, 
As  he  winds  the  woods  along  ;  — 
Christian,  't  is  the  song  of  fear ; 
Wolves  are  round  thee,  night  is  near, 
And  the  wild  thou  dar'st  to  roam  — 
Think,  't  was  once  the  Indian's  home  .' 

Hither,  sprites,  who  love  to  harm, 
Wheresoe'er  you  work  your  charm, 
Cy  the  creeks,  or  by  the  brakes, 
Where  the  pale  witch  feeds  her  snakes, 
And  the  cayman  loves  to  creep, 
Torpid,  to  his  wintry  sleep : 
Where  the  bird  of  carrion  flits, 
And  the  shudd'ring  murderer  sits, 
Lone  beneath  a  roof  of  blood  ; 
While  upon  his  poison'd  food, 
From  the  corpse  of  him  he  slew 
Drops  the  chil1  and  gory  dew. 

33* 


3S0  MISCELLAM'.i/CS    POEilS. 

Hither  bend  ye,  turn  ye  hither, 
Eyes  that  Mast  and  wings  that  wither ! 
Cross  the  wand'ring  Christian's  way, 
Lead  him,  ere  the  glimpse  of  day, 
Many  a  mile  of  madd'ning  error, 
Through  the  maze  of  night  and  terror. 
Till  the  morn  behold  him  lying 
On  the  damp  earth,  pale  and  dying. 
Mock  him,  when  his  eager  sight 
Seeks  the  cordial  cottage-light ; 
Gleam  then,  like  the  lightning-bug, 
Tempt  him  to  the  den  that 's  dug 
For  the  foul  and  famish'd  brood 
Of  the  she-wolf,  gaunt  for  blood ; 
Or,  unto  the  dangerous  pass 
O'er  the  deep  and  dark  morass, 
Where  the  trembling  Indian  brings 
Belts  of  porcelain,  pipes,  and  rings, 
Tributes,  to  be  hung  in  air, 
To  the  Fiend  presiding  there ! 

Then,  when  night's  long  labor  past, 
Wilder'd,  faint,  he  falls  at  last, 
Sinking  where  the  causeway's  edge    ^ 
Moulders  in  the  slimy  sedge. 
There  let  every  noxious  tiling 
Trail  its  filth  and  fix  its  sting ; 
Let  the  bull-toad  taint  him  over, 
Round  him  let  moschetoes  hover, 
In  his  ears  and  eyeballs  tingle, 
With  his  blood  their  poison  mingle. 
Till,  beneath  the  solar  fires, 
Rankling  all,  the  wretch  erpires' 


LINES 
iramEN  at  t«e  cohos,  or  faxls  of  the  mohawf 

RIVER. 

From  nse  of  morn  till  set  of  sun 
I  've  seen  the  might}-  Mohawk  run  ; 
And  as  I  niaik'd  the  woods  of  pine 
Along  his  mirror  darkly  shine, 
Like  tall  and  gloomy  forms  that  pass 
Before  the  wizard's  midnight  glass ; 
And  as  I  view'd  the  hurrying  pace 
W  Lth  which  he  ran  his  turbid  race, 
Rushing,  alike  untired  and  wild, 
Through  shades  that  frown'd  and  flowers 

that  smiled, 
Flying  by  every  green  recess 
That  woo'd  him  to  its  calm  caress, 
Yet,  sometimes  turning  with  the  wind, 
As  if  to  leave  one  look  behind,  — 
Oft  have  I  thought,  and  thinking  sigh'd, 
How  like  to  thee,  thou  restless  tide, 

be  the  lot,  the  life  of  him 
Who  roams  along  thy  water's  brim ; 
Through  what  alternate  wastes  of  wo* 
And  flowers  of  joy  my  path  may  go; 
How  many  a  shelter'd,  calm  retreat 
May  woo  the  while  my  weary  feet, 
While  still  pursuing,  still  unbless'd, 
I  wander  on,  nor  dare  to  rest : 


31)2  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

But,  urgent  as  the  doom  that  ca] 
Thy  water  to  its  destined  falls, 
I  feel  the  world's  bewild'ring  force 
Hurry  my  heart's  devoted  course 
From  lapse  to  lapse,  till  life  be  done, 
And  the  spent  current  cease  to  run. 
One  only  prayer  I  dare  to  make, 
As  onward  thus  my  course  I  take ;  — 
Oh,  be  my  falls  as  bright  as  thine  ! 
May  heaven's  relenting  rainbow  shine 
Upon  the  mist  that  circles  me, 
As  soft  as  now  it  hangs  o'er  thee ! 


THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FRAGRANT 
SHRINE. 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord !  that  Arch  of  thine  ; 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves, 
When  rnurm'ring  homeward  to  their  caves, 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 
E'en  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee. 

1 11  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  Throne ; 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  393 

Tny  Heaven,  on  which  't  is  bliss  to  look, 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book, 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  -words  of  flame. 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I  '11  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness,  breaking  through. 

There 's  nothing  bright,  above,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  gk  w, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  Deity. 

There 's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  Love, 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment,  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again ! 


YOUTH   AND   AGE. 

"  Tell  me,  what's  Love  ?"  said  Youth,  cae  day, 

To  drooping  Age,  who  cross'd  his  way.  — 

"  It  is  a  sunny  hour  of  play, 

For  which  repentance  dear  doth  pay ; 

Repentance !  Repentance ! 
And  this  is  Love,  as  wise  men  say." 


&94  MISCELLANEOUS   POEM3. 

"  Ted  me,  what 's  Love  ?  "  said  Youth  once  mora, 
Fearful,  yet  fond,  of  Age's  lore.  — 
"  Soft  as  a  passing  summer's  wind  : 
Wouldst  know  the  blight  it  leaves  behind  ? 

Repentance !  Repentance ! 
And  thi3  is  Love  —  when  Love  is.  o'er." 

" Tell  me,  what's  Love?"  said  Youth  again, 
Trusting  the  bliss,  but  not  the  pain. 
"  Sweet  as  a  May  tree's  scented  air  — 
Mark  ye  what  bitter  fruit 't  will  bear. 

Repentance !  Repentance ! 
This,  this  is  Love  —  sweet  Youth,  beware." 

Just  then,  young  Love  himself  came  iy, 
And  cast  on  Youth  a  smiling  eye  ; 
Who  could  resist  that  glance's  ray  ? 
In  vain  did  Age  his  warning  say, 

"  Repentance !  Repentance  ! ''"' 
Youth  laughing  went  with  Love  awav. 


THE  DYING  WARRIOR 

A  wounded  Chieftain,  lying 
By  the  Danube's  leafy  side, 

Thus  faintly  said,  in  dying, 
"  Oh  !  bear,  thou  foanung 

This  gift  to  my  lady-bnde 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  395 

T  was  t.ien,  in  life's  last  quiver, 

He  flung  the  scar?  ae  wore 
Into  the  foaming  river, 

Which,  ah  too  quickly,  bore 

That  pledge  of  one  no  more ! 

With  fond  impatience  burning, 

The  Chieftain's  lady  stood, 
To  watch  her  love  returning 

In  triumph  down  the  flood, 

From  that  day's  held  of  blood. 

But,  field,  alas,  ill-fated  ' 
The  lady  saw,  instead 

Of  the  bark  whose  speed  she  waited, 
Her  hero's  scarf,  all  red 
With  the  drops  his  heart  had  shed. 

One  shriek  —  and  all  was  over  — 
Her  life-pulse  ceased  to  beat; 

The  gloomy  waves  now  cover 
That  bridal-flower  so  sweet, 
And  the  scarf  is  her  winding-sheet; 


MERRILY  EVERY  BOSOM  BOUNDETH. 

THE   TYHOLESE  SOXQ   OP  LIBERTY. 

Merrily  every  bosom  boundeth, 

Merrily,  oh ! 
Where  the  song  of  Freedom  soundeth, 
Merrily,  oh ! 
There  the  warrior's  arms 

Shed  more  splendor ; 
There  the  maiden's  charms 
Shine  more  tender ; 
Ev'ry  joy  the  land  surroundeth, 
Merrily,  oh !  merrily,  oh ! 

Wearily  every  bosom  pineth, 

Wearily,  oh ! 
Where  the  bond  of  slavery  twineth. 
Wearily,  oh ! 
There  the  warrior's  dart 

Hath  no  fleetness ; 
There  the  maiden's  heart 
Hath  no  sweetness  — 
Ev'ry  flow'r  of  life  declineth, 
Wearily,  oh !  wearily,  oh ! 

Cheerily  then  from  hill  and  valley, 

Cheerily,  oh ! 
Like  your  native  fountains  sally, 

Cheerily,  oh! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.,  397 

If  a  glorious  deatfl. 

Won  by  braverv. 
Sweeter  be  tban  breatn 

Sigh'd  in  slavery 
Round  the  flag  of  Freedom  ra,«y, 
Cheerily,  oh !  cheerily  oh ! 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 

"Come,  if  thy  magic  Glass  have  pow'r 

To  call  up  forms  we  wish  to  see ; 
Show  me  my  Love,  in  that  rosy  bow'r, 

Where  last  she  pledged  her  truth  to  me.w 

The  Wizard  show'd  him  his  Lady  bright, 
Where  lone  and  pale  in  her  bow'r  she  lay  j 

"  True-hearted  maid,"  said  the  happy  Knight, 
"  She 's  thinking  of  one,  who  is  far  awav  " 

Rut,  lo !  a  page,  with  looks  of  joy, 

Brings  tidings  to  the  Lady's  ear; 
"  'T  is,"  said  the  Knight,  "  the  same  bright  boy^ 

Who  used  to  guide  me  to  my  dear." 

The  Lady  now,  from  her  fav'rite  tree, 
Hath,  smiling,  pluck'd  a  rosy  flow'r ; 

45  Such,"  he  exclaim'd,  "  was  the  gift  that  she 
Each  morning  sent  me  from  that  bow'r  '  " 


393  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

She  gives  her  page  the  blooming  rose, 

With  looks  that  say,  "  Like  lightning,  fly ! " 

"  Thus,"  thought  the  Knight,  "  she  sooths  her  woes, 
By  fancying,  still,  her  true-love  nigh." 

But  the  page  returns,  and  —  oh,  what  a  eight, 

For  trusting  lover's  eyes  to  see !  — 
Leads  to  that  bow'r  another  Knight, 

As  young  and,  alas,  as  loved  as  he  ! 

"  Such,"  quoth  the  Youth,  "  is  Woman's  love  *  * 
Then,  darting  forth,  with  furious  bound, 

Dash'd  at  the  Mirror  his  iron  glove, 
And  strew'd  it  all  in  fragments  round. 

MORAL. 

Such  ills  would  never  have  come  to  pass, 
Had  he  ne'er  sought  that  fatal  view  ; 

The  Wizard  would  still  have  kept  his  Glass, 
And  the  Knight  still  thought  his  Lady  true. 


THE  FANCY  FAIR. 

Come,  maids  and  youths,  for  here  we  sell 
All  wondrous  tilings  of  earth  and  air ; 

Whatever  wild  romancers  tell, 
Or  poets  sing,  or  lovers  swear, 
You  '11  find  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 


MISCELLANEOUS       OEMS  3D9 

Here  eyes  are  made  like  stars  to  shine, 
And  kept,  for  years,  in  such  repair, 

That  ev'n  when  turn'd  of  thirty-nine, 
They  '11  hardly  look  the  worse  for  wear, 
If  bought  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

We  've  lots  of  tears  for  bards  to  show'r, 
And  hearts  that  such  ill  usage  bear, 

That,  though  they  're  broken  ev'ry  hour, 
They  '11  still  in  rhyme  fresh  breaking  bear, 
If  purchased  at  our  Fancy  Fair. 

As  fashions  change  in  ev'ry  thing, 
We  've  goods  to  suit  each  season's  air, 

Eternal  friendships  for  the  spr'ng, 

And  endless  loves  for  summer  wear, — 
All  sold  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

We  ve  reputations  white  as  snow, 
That  long  will  lost,  if  used  with  care, 

Nay,  safe  through  all  life's  journey  go, 
If  pack'd  and  mark'd  as  "brittle  ware,"-- 
Just  purchased  at  the  Fancy  Fair 


4>;0 


HER  LAST  WORDS,  AT  PARTING. 

(Ier  last  words,  at  parting1,  how  can  I  forget? 
Deep  treasured  through  life,  in  my  heart  they  shall 
stay ; 
Like  music,  whose  charm  in  the  soul  lingers  yet, 
When  its  sounds  from  the  ear  have  long  melted 
away. 
Let  Fortune  assail  me,  her  threat'nings  are  vain ; 

Those  still-breathing  words  shall  my  talisman  be,  — 
"  Remember,  in  absence,  in  sorrow,  and  pain, 
There 's  one  heart,  unchanging,  that  beats  but  for 
thee." 

From  the  desert's  sweet  well  tho'  the  pilgrim  must  hie, 
Never  more  of  that  fresh-springing  fountain  to  taste, 
He  hath  still  of  its  bright  drops  a  treasured  supply, 
Whose  sweetness  lends  life  to  his  lips  through  the 
waste. 
So,  dark  as  my  fate  is  still  uoomU  to  remain, 
These  words  shall  my  well  in  tne  wilderness  be,  — 
Remember,  in  absence,  in  sorrow,  and  pain, 
There's  one  heart,  unchanging,  that  beats  but  for 
hee 


40! 


BALLAD   STANZAS. 

I  ksew  by  the  smoke,  that  so  gracefully  curl'd 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near, 

And  I  said,  "If  there's  peace  to  be  found  in  the  world, 
A  heart  that  was  humble  might  hope  for  it  here  !  " 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languish'd  around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee  ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beach-tree. 

And,  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaim'd, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye, 

Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  if  I 
blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm  could  I  die ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  I  sigh'd  upon  innocent  lips, 
Which  had  never  been  sigh'd  on  by  any  but  mine '  * 

34» 


SALE  OF  CUPID. 

Who  'll  buy  a  little  boy  ?  Look,  yonder  is  he, 

Fast  asleep,  sly  rogue,  on  his  mother's  knee  ; 

So  bold  a  young  imp  't  is  n't  safe  to  keep, 

So  1'  11  part  with  him  now,  while  he  'a  sound  asleep 

See  his  arch  little  nose,  how  sharp  't  is  curl'd, 

His  wings,  too,  ev'n  in  sleep  unfuii'd  ; 

And  those  lingers,  which  still  ever  ready  are  found 

For  mirth  or  for  mischief,  to  tickle,  or  wound. 

He  '11  try  with  his  tears  your  heart  to  beguile, 
But  never  you  mind  —  he 's  laughing  all  the  wliile ; 
For  little  he  cares,  so  he  has  his  own  whim, 
And  weeping  or  laughing  are  all  one  to  him. 

ye  is  as  keen  as  the  lightning's  flash, 
His  tongue  like  the  red  bolt  quick  and  rash ; 
And  so  savage  is  he,  that  his  own  dear  mother 
Is  scarce  more  safe  in  his  hands  than  another. 

In  short,  to  sum  up  this  darling's  praise, 
He 's  a  downright  pest  in  all  sorts  of  ways  • 
And  if  any  one  wants  such  an  imp  to  employ, 
He  shall  have  a  dead  bargain  of  this  little  boy. 
Bu',  see,  the  boy  wakes  — his  bright  tears  flow  — 
His  eyes  seem  to  ask  could  I  sell  him  ?  oh  no, 
Sweet  child,  no,  no  —  though  so  naughty  you  be, 
You  shall  live  evermore  with  my  Lesbia-  and  me 


COME,  YE  DISCONSOLATE. 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  you  languish, 

Come,  at  God's  altar  fervently  kneel ; 
I]  ere  bring  your  wounded  hearts,  here  tell  your  an 
guish  — 

Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  heal. 

Joy  of  the  desolate,  Light  of  the  straying, 
Hope,  when  all  others  die,  fadeless  and  pure, 

Here  speaks  the  Comforter,  in  God's  name  saying  — 
"  Earth  lias  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  cure." 

Go,  ask  the  infidel,  what  boon  he  brings  us, 
What  charm  for  aching-  hearts  he  can  reveal, 

Sweet  as  that  heavenly  promise  Hope  sings  us  — 
"  Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  God  cannot  heal." 


THE  MEETING   OF  THE  SHIPS. 

When  o'er  the  silent  seas  alone, 
For  days  and  nights  we  've  cheerless  gone, 
Oh  they  who  've  felt  it  know  how  sweet, 
Some  sunny  morn  a  sail  to  meet 


404  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Sparkling  at  once  is  ev'ry  eye, 

"  Ship  ahoy  !  ship  ahoy !  "  our  joyful  cry , 

While  answering  back  the  sounds  we  hear 

"Ship  ahoy!  ship  ahoy!  what  cheer?  what  cheer?" 

Then  sails  are  back'd,  we  nearer  come, 
Kind  words  are  said  of  friends  and  home ; 
And  soon,  too  soon,  we  part  with  pain, 
To  sail  o'er  silent  seas  ajrain. 


THE  EXILE. 


Night  waneth  fast,  the  morning  star 

Saddens  with  light  the  glimm'ring  sea, 
Whose  waves  shall  soon  to  realms  afar 

Waft  me  from  hope,  from  love,  and  thee. 
Coldly  the  beam  from  yonder  sky 

Looks  o'er  the  waves  that  onward  stray  ; 
But  colder  still  the  stranger's  eye. 

To  him  whose  home  is  far  away. 

Oh,  not  at  hour  so  chill  and  bleak, 

Let  thoughts  of  me  come  o'er  thy  breast; 
But  of  the  lost  one  think  and  speak, 

When  summer  suns  sink  calm  to  rest. 
So,  as  I  wander,  Fancy's  dream 

Shall  bring  me  o'er  the  sunset  seas, 
Thy  look,  in  ev'ry  melting  beam, 

Thy  whisper,  in  eacli  dying  breeze. 


405 


AS  DOWN  IN  THE  SUNLESS  RETREATS 

As  down  in  the  sunless  retreats  of  the  Ocean, 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing  no  mortal  can  see, 
So,  deep  in  my  soul  the  still  prayer  of  devotion, 
Unheard  by  the  world,  rises  silent  to  Thee, 
My  God  !  silent,  to  Thee, 
Pure,  warm,  silent,  to  Thee. 

As  still  to  the  star  of  its  worship,  though  clouded, 

The  needle  points  faithfully  o'er  the  dim  sea, 

So,  dark  as  I  roam,  in  this  wintry  world  shrouded, 

The  hope  of  my  spirit  tarns  trembling  to  Thee, 

My  God !  trembling,  to  Thee  — 

True,  fond,  trembling,  to  Thee 


ROSE  OF  THE  DESERT. 

Rose  of  the  Desert !  thou,  whose  blushing  inj 
Lonely  and  lovely,  fleets  unseen  away : 
No  hand  to  cull  thee,  none  to  woo  thy  sigh,  — 
In  vestal  silence  left  to  live  and  die,— 
Rose  of  the  Desert !  thus  should  woman  be, 
Shining  uncourted,  lone  and  safe,  like  thee. 


406  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Rose  of  the  Garden,  how  unlike  thy  doom 
Destined  for  others,  not  thyself,  to  bloom  ; 
CulPd  ere  thy  beauty  lives  through  half  its  day ; 
A  moment  cherish'd,  and  then  cast  away  ; 
Rose  of  the  Garden !  such  is  woman's  lot,  — 
Worshipp'd,  while  blooming  —  when  she  fades,  forgot 


SOUND   THE  LOUD  TUMBREL. 

Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd  —  his  people  are  free. 
Sing  —  for  the  pride  of  the  Tyrant  is  broken, 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and  brave  — 
How  vain  was  their  boast,  for  the  Lord  hath  but  spoken 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ; 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd  —  his  people  are  free. 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord ! 

His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was  our  sword.  — 

Who  shall  retnrn  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 
For  the  Lord  hath  look'd  out  from  his  pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash'd  in  the  tide 
Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  tiiumph'd  —  his  people  are  free ' 


407 


LONG  YEARS  HAVE  PASS'D. 

Long  years  have  pass'd,  old  friend,  since  we 

First  met  in  life's  young  day ; 
And  friends  long  loved  by  thee  and  me, 

Since  then  have  dropp'd  away ;  — 
But  enough  remain  to  cheer  us  on, 

And  sweeten,  when  thus  we  're  met, 
The  glass  we  fill  to  the  many  gone, 

And  the  few  who  're  left  us  yet 

Our  locks,  old  friend,  now  thinly  grow, 

And  some  hang  white  and  chill ; 
While  some,  like  flow'rs  'mid  Autumn's  snow, 

Retain  youth's  color  still. 
And  so,  in  our  hearts,  though  one  by  one, 

Ycuth's  sunny  hopes  have  set, 
Thank  heav'n,  not  all  their  light  is  gone,  — 

We  've  some  to  cheer  us  yet. 

Then  here 's  to  thee,  old  friend,  and  long 

May  thou  and  I  thus  meet, 
To  brighten  still  with  wine  and  song 

This  short  life,  ere  it  fleet 
And  still  as  death  comes  stealing  on, 

Let 's  never,  old  friend,  forget, 
Ev'n  while  we  sigh  o'er  blessings  gone. 

How  many  are  left  us  yet 


408 


TELL  HER,  OH,  TELL  HER. 

Tell  her,  oh,  tell  her,  the  lute  she  left  lying 
Beneath  the  green  arbor,  is  still  lying  there ; 

And  breezes,  like  lovers,  around  it  are  sighing, 
But  not  a  soft  whisper  replies  to  their  pray'r. 

Tell  her,  oh,  tell  her,  the  tree  that,  in  going, 
Beside  the  green  arbor  she  playfully  set, 

As  lovely  as  ever  is  blushing  and  blowing, 
And  not  a  bright  leaflet  has  fall'n  from  it  yet 

So  while  away  from  that  arbor  forsaken, 
The  maiden  is  wandering,  still  let  her  be 

As  true  as  the  lute,  that  no  sighing  can  waken, 
And  blooming  for  ever,  unchanged  as  the  tref 


OH   CALL  IT  BY  SOME  BETTER  NAME 

Oh,  call  it  by  some  better  name, 
For  Friendship  sounds  too  cold, 

While  Love  is  now  a  worldly  flame*. 
Whose  shrine  must  be  of  gold  • 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  409 

And  Passion,  like  the  sun  at  noon, 

That  burns  o'er  all  he  sees, 
Awhile  as  warm,  will  set  as  soon  - 

Then,  call  it  none  of  these. 

Imagine  something  purer  far, 

More  free  from  stain  of  clay 
Than  Friendship,  Love,  or  Passion  are, 

Yet  human  still  as  they ; 
And  if  thy  lip,  for  love  like  this, 

No  mortal  word  can  frame, 
Go,  ask  of  angels  what  it  is, 

And  call  it  by  that  name  • 


FANCY. 


The  more  I  've  view'd  this  world,  the  more  I  've  foun^ 

That,  fill'd  as  't  is  with  scenes  and  creatures  rare, 
Fancy  commands,  within  her  own  bright  round, 

A  world  of  scenes  and  creatures  far  more  fair 
Nor  is  it  that  her  power  can  call  up  there 

A  single  ch  arm,  that 's  not  from  nature  won,  — 
No  more  than  rainbows,  in  their  pride,  can  wear 

A  single  tint  unborrow'd  from  the  sun ; 
But 't  is  the  mental  medium  it  shines  through, 
That  lends  to  Beauty  all  its  charms  and  hue ; 
As  the  same  light,  that  o'er  the  level  lake 

One  dull  monotony  of  lustre  flings, 
Will,  entering  in  the  rounded  rain-drop,  make 

Colors  as  gay  as  those  on  angels'  wings ! 


410 


TO  THE  FLYING  FISH. 

When  I  have  seen  thy  snow-white  wing 
From  the  blue  wave  at  evening  spring, 
And  show  those  scales  of  silvery  white, 
So  gayly  to  the  eye  of  light, 
As  if  thy  frame  were  form'd  to  rise, 
And  live  amid  the  glorious  skies  ; 
Oh !  it  has  made  me  proudly  feel, 
How  like  thy  wing's  impatient  zeal      , 
Is  the  pure  soul,  that  rests  not,  pent 
Within  tins  world's  gross  element, 
But  takes  the  wing  that  God  has  given, 
And  rises  into  light  and  heaven ! 

But,  when  I  see  that  wing,  so  bright, 
Grow  languid  with  a  moment's  flight, 
Attempt  the  paths  of  air  in  vain, 
And  sink  into  the  waves  again ; 
Alas !  the  flattering  pride  is  o'er ; 
Like  thee,  awhile,  the  soul  may  soar, 
But  erring  man  must  blush  to  think, 
Like  thee,  again  the  soul  may  sink. 

Oh  Virtue  !  when  thy  clime  I  seek, 
Let  not  my  spirit's  flight  be  weak : 
Let  me  not,  like  this  feeble  thing, 
With  brine  still  dropping  from  its  wing 
Just  sparkle  in  the  solar  glow 
Aud  plunge  again  to  depths  below ; 


MISCELIANEuUS    POEMS.  411 

But,  when  I  leave  the  grosser  throng 
With  whom  my  soul  hath  dwelt  so  long, 
Let  me,  in  that  aspiring  day, 
Cast  every  lingering  stain  away. 
And,  panting  for  thy  purer  air, 
Fly  up  at  once  and  fix  me  there. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

THEf  both  were  hush'd,  the  voice,  the  chords  - 
I  heard  but  once  that  witching  lay ; 

And  few  the  notes,  and  few  the  words, 
My  spell-bound  memory  brought  away ; 

Traces  remember'd  here  and  there, 
Like  echoes  of  some  broken  strain;  — 

Links  of  a  sweetness  lost  in  air, 
That  nothing  now  could  join  again. 

Ev'n  these,  too,  ere  the  morning,  fled  ; 

And,  though  the  charm  still  linger'd  on, 
That  o'er  each  sense  her  song  had  shed, 

The  song  itself  was  faded,  gone ;  — 

Gone,  like  the  thoughts  that  once  were  ours, 
On  summer  days,  ere  youth  had  set ; 

Thoughts  bright,  we  know,  as  summer  flowers, 
Thought  what  they  were,  we  now  forget. 


112  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  vain,  with  hints  from  other  strains, 
I  woo'd  this  truant  air  to  come  — 

As  birds  are  taught,  on  eastern  plains, 
To  lure  their  wilder  kindred  home. 

In  vain :  —  the  song  that  Sappho  gave, 

In  dying,  to  the  mournful  sea, 
Not  muter  slept  beneatli  the  wave, 

Than  this  within  my  memory. 

At  length,  one  morning,  as  I  lay 

In  that  half-waking  mood,  when  dreams 

Unwillingly  at  last  give  way 

To  the  full  truth  of  daylight's  beams, 

A  face  —  the  very  face,  methought, 

From  which  had  breathed,  as  from  a  shrine 

Of  song  and  soul,  the  notes  I  sought  — 
Came  with  its  music  close  to  mine ; 

And  sung  the  long-lost  measure  o'er,  — 
Each  note  and  word,  with  every  tone 

And  look,  that  lent  it  life  before,  — 
All  perfect,  all  again  my  own ! 

Like  parted  souls,  when,  mid  the  Blest 
They  meet  again,  each  widow'd  sound 

Through  memory's  realm  had  wing'd  in  quest 
Of  its  sweet  mate,  till  all  were  found. 

Nor  even  in  waking  did  the  clue. 

Thus  strangely  caught,  escape  again; 
For  never  lark  its  matins  knew 

So  well  as  now  I  knew  this  strain. 


MISCELLA>tuCS    POEMS.  413 

And  oft,  when  memory's  wondrous  spell 

Is  talk'd  of  in  our  tranquil  bower, 
I  sing  this  lady's  song,  and  tell 

The  vision  of  that  morning  hour. 


BOAT  GLEE. 

The  song  that  lightens  our  languid  way 
When  brows  are  glowing, 
And  faint  with  rowing, 
is  like  the  spell  of  Hope's  airy  lay, 
To  whose  sound  through  life  we  stray. 
The  beams  that  flash  on  the  oar  awhile, 

As  we  row  along  through  waves  so  clear, 
Illume  its  spray,  like  the  fleeting  smile 
That  shines  o'er  Sorrow's  tear. 

Nothing  is  lost  on  him  who  sees 

With  an  eye  that  Feeling  gave ; 
For  him  there 's  a  story  in  every  breeze, 

And  a  picture  in  every  wave. 
Then  sing  to  lighten  the  languid  way ;  — 
When  brows  are  glowing, 
And  faint  with  rowing ; 
'T  is  like  the  spell  of  Hope's  airy  lay, 
To  whose  sound  through  life  we  stray 

35* 


SONG 

Where  is  the  heart  that  would  not  giv% 

Years  of  drowsy  days  and  nights, 
One  little  hour,  like  this,  to  live  — 
Full,  to  the  brim,  of  life's  delights  ? 

Look,  look  around 

This  fairy  ground, 
With  love-lights  glittering  o'er ; 

While  cups  that  shine 

With  freight  divine 
Go  coasting  round  its  shore. 

Hope  is  the  dupe  of  future  hours, 
Memory  lives  in  those  gone  by ; 
N&tUier  can  see  the  moment's  flowers 
Springing  up  fresh  beneath  the  eye, 

Wouldst  thou,  or  thou, 

Forego  what's  noio, 
For  all  that  Hope  may  say  ? 

No  —  Joy's  reply, 

From  every  eye, 
Is,  "  Live  we  while  we  may," 


COME,  PLAY  ME  THAT  SIMPLE  AIR  AGAIN. 

A   BALLAD. 

Come,  play  me  that  simple  air  again, 

I  used  so  to  love,  in  life's  young  day, 
And  bring,  if  thou  canst,  the  dreams  that  then 
Were  waken'd  by  that  sweet  lay. 
The  tender  gloom  its  strain 

Shed  o'er  the  heart  and  brow, 
Grief's  shadow,  without  its  pain  - 
Say  where,  where  is  it  now? 
But  play  me  the  well-known  air  once  more, 

For  thoughts  of  youth  still  haunt  its  strain, 
Like  dreams  of  some  far,  fairy  shore 
We  never  shall  see  again. 

Sweet  air,  how  every  note  brings  back 

Some  sunny  hope,  some  day-dream  bright, 
That,  shining  o'er  life's  early  tracK, 
Fill'd  ev'n  its  tears  with  light. 

The  new-found  life  that  came 

With  love's  first  echo'd  vow ;  — 
The  fear,  the  bliss,  the  shame  — 
Ah  —  where,  where  are  they  now 
But,  still  the  same  loved  notes  prolong, 

For  sweet  c  were  thus,  to  that  old  lay, 
In  dreams  of  youth  and  love  and  song. 
To  breathe  life's  hour  away. 


4ib 


SONG. 

"T  is  the  Vine!  'tis  the  Vine!"  said  the  cup-loving  boy 

As  he  saw  it  spring  bright  from  the  earth, 
And  call'd  the  young  Genii  of  Wit,  Love,  and  Joy, 

To  witness  and  hallow  its  birth. 
The  fruit  was  full-grown,  like  a  ruby  it  flamed, 

Till  the  sunbeam  that  kiss'd  it  look'd  pale : 
"  T  is  the  Vine !  't  is  the  Vine ! "  ev'ry  Spirit  exclahr'd, 

"  Hail,  hail  to  the  Wine-tree,  all  hail ! " 


First,  fleet  as  a  bird,  to  the  summons  Wit  flew 

While  a  light  on  the  vine-leaves  there  broke, 
In  flashes  so  quick  and  so  brilliant,  all  knew 

'T  was  the  light  from  his  lips  as  lie  spoke. 
"  Bright  tree  !  let  thy  nectar  but  cheer  me,"  he  cried, 

a  And  the  fount  of  Wit  never  can  fail ;  " 
w  'T  is  the  Vine !  't  is  the  Vine ! "  hills  and  valleys  reply 

"Hail,  hail  to  the  Wine-tree,  all  hail!" 


Next,  Love,  as  he  lean'd  o'er  the  plant  to  admire 

Each  tendril  and  cluster  it  wore, 
From  his  rosy  mouth  sent  such  a  breath  of  desire, 

As  made  the  tree  tremble  all  o'er. 
Oh,  never  did  flow'r  of  the  earth,  sea,  or  sky, 

Such  a  soul-giving  odor  inhale  : 
*  'T  is  the  Vine !  't  is  the  Vine ! "  all  re-echo  the  cry, 

"  Hail,  hail  to  the  Wine-tree,  all  hail ! " 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  41V 

Last,  Joy,  without  whom  even  Love  and  Wit  die, 

Came  to  crown  the  bright  hour  with  his  ray ; 
And  scarce  had  that  mirth-v  aking  tree  met  his  eye, 
When  a  laugh  spoke  what.  Joy  could  not  say ;  — 
A  laugh  of  the  heart,  which  was  echoed  around 
Till,  like  music,  it  swell'*!  on  tiie  gale  ; 
'T  is   the  Vine !   't  is   the  Vine ! "  laughing  mynada 

resound, 
"  Hail,  hail  to  the  Wine-tree,  all  hail ! " 


SOVEREIGN   WOMAN 

A   KALLAD. 

The  dance  was  o'er,  vet  still  in  dream* 

That  fairy  scene  went  on ; 
Like  clouds  still  flush'd  with  daylight  gleai.ns, 

Though  day  itseji  is  ^one. 
And  gracefully  to  music's  sound. 
The  same  bright  nymphs  went  gliding  round  , 
While  thou,  the  Queen  of  all,  wert  there  — 
The  Fairest  still,  where  all  were  fair. 

The  dream  then  changed  —  in  halls  of  state. 

I  saw  thee  high  enthroned  ; 
While,  ranged  around,  the  wise,  the  great 

In  thee  their  mistress  own'd  • 


418  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

And  still  the  same,  thy  gentle  sway 
O'er  willing  subjects  won  its  way  — 
Till  all  confess'd  the  Right  Divine 
To  rule  o'er  man  was  only  thine ! 


But,  lo,  the  scene  now  changed  again    - 

And  borne  on  plumed  steed, 
I  saw  thee  o'er  the  battle-plain 

Our  land's  defenders  lead  ; 
And  stronger  in  thy  beauty's  charms, 
Than  man,  with  countless  hosts  in  arms, 
Thy  voice,  like  music,  cheer'd  the  Free, 
Thy  very  smile  was  victory ! 


Nor  reign  such  queens  on  thrones  alone  -- 

In  cot  and  court  the  same, 
Wherever  woman's  smile  is  known, 

Victoria 's  still  her  name. 
For  though  she  almost  blush  to  reign, 
Though  Love's  own  flow'rets  wreath  the  chain, 
Disguise  our  bondage  as  we  will, 
T  is  woman,  woman,  rules  us  siilL 


419 


AT   NIGHT. 

Ai  night,  when  all  is  still  around, 
How  sweet  to  hear  the  distant  sound 

Of  footstep,  coming  soft  and  light! 
What  pleasure  in  the  anxious  beat, 
With  which  the  bosom  flies  to  meet 

That  foot  that  comes  so  soft  at  night t 

And  then,  at  night,  how  sweet  to  say 
"  'T  is  late,  my  love ! "  and  chide  delay, 

Though  still  the  western  clouds  are  bright 
Oh  !  happy,  too,  the  silent  press, 
The  eloquence  of  mute  caress, 

With  those  we  love  exchanged  at  nighl  * 


RONDEAU 


"  Good  night!  good  night ! "  —  And  is  it  so  ? 

And  must  I  from  my  Rosa  go  ? 

Oh  Rosa,  say  "Good  night !r  once  more, 

And  I  '11  repeat  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

Till  the  first  glance  of  dawning  hgfit 

Shall  find  us  saying,  still,  "  Good  night.'' 


420  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  still  "  Good  night,"  my  Rosa,  say  — 
But  whisper  still,  "  A  minute  stay ; " 
And  I  will  stay,  and  every  minute 
Shall  have  an  age  of  transport  in  it ; 
Till  Time  himself  shall  stay  his  flight, 
To  listen  to  our  sweet  "  Good  night." 

"  Good  night !  "  you  '11  murmur  with  a  sigh, 

And  tell  mo  it  is  time  to  fly : 

And  I  will  vow,  will  swear  to  go, 

While  still  that  sweet  voice  murmurs  K  No : 

Till  slumher  seal  our  weary  sight  — 

And  then,  my  love,  my  soul, '  Good  night  ? ' 


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